Frosted
by Lucinda
Summary: Instead of moving to Sunnydale after divorcing Hank Summers, Joyce asked one of her college friends for help. Being friends with Emma Frost has some benefits - especially when she learns what her eldest daughter is doing at night.
1. parts 1 to 3

Author: Lucinda

Rated y-14, moderate sexuality, possible swearing, and femmeslash.

Main characters: Joyce Summers, Emma Frost, and mentions of Hank, Buffy and Dawn.

Disclaimer: Emma belongs to Marvel; the Summers family belongs to Joss.

Distribution: Luba, Mental Wanderings, Twisting the Hellmouth, Joe - anyone else ask.

Notes: AU post Hemery for Buffy. Joyce didn't move to Sunnydale. Written for Joe. : words in colons: are over a telephone. Dawn exists, but only as the younger daughter of Joyce and Hank.

Joyce looked at the papers on her table and smiled. The divorce was over with. She was finally free of Hank and his affairs, his lies to try to hide the affairs, and the need to try to make excuses for their daughters about him and his continual absences. Granted, she had three weeks to vacate the house and find a new place to live, new schools for the girls - a task made harder by Buffy burning down the gym of her last school, but still... This would be better; it had to be.

As long as she could find a place for them. Somewhere free of Hank's memory. Somewhere that she could be happy again.

"Damn it, Hank. Why did you do this to me? Why couldn't I ever trust you?" Joyce spoke the words, feeling tears burn in her eyes, and shame in her gut. Maybe the real question wasn't why did Hank cheat, but why had she stayed with him? Why had she put up with it for so long?

The only female secretary that Hank had had for the past fifteen years that she was sure he hadn't been sleeping with had been Margaret, and that was only because if there had been a Summers affair, Margaret would have picked Joyce over Hank any day. She'd been a rather pretty woman, with delicate bones and beautiful green eyes, and it had felt flattering that she'd flirted with Joyce every time she'd seen her. If she hadn't been married to Hank, she probably would have taken up the unspoken invitation…

But she'd married Hank. She'd made a promise, and she'd wanted so badly to make things work. Of course, as the years had passed, she'd almost felt like Hank had married her as a career move, someone to have dinner parties and as an excuse why he couldn't make any promises to his secretaries. Why hadn't it been Kevin or Jack that had been the guy in her life when the pills had failed her? Why not someone who would have treated her better, even if Hank had shown that unexpected streak of decency to not want any of his children to be born illegitimate? She occasionally wondered what he'd do if he slipped up with one of his secretaries…

She shook her head, trying to crush down the voice that whispered she had a duty to stay with Hank, to let her girls know their father. The voice didn't sound like her, or like Buffy. She couldn't quite figure out who the voice reminded her of, but she didn't like the voice, didn't like the reminder; didn't like putting up with Hank's antics. She refused to put up with any more.

It had been a long time since she'd been happy. Not since her college days, when she'd still been dating around, exploring life. She'd made one of the best friends that she could ask for, despite the fact that she had majored in art, and her friend in business. Business... She had stayed in touch, though not as close as she would have liked. Maybe her friend could help her find a new home, and new schools for her girls? That annoying voice tried to rise again, whispering that Emma had better things to do than waste her time with a divorced woman with no practical skills…

Joyce pushed that whisper down as well. So what if working in an art gallery wasn't particularly practical? There was a need for art, and when people wanted art, someone had to display and sell it. Why not her? It was fun, enjoyable, and she did quite well with art of all sorts, though she wasn't much more than a mediocre artist herself. Her friend had always found at least a little time to talk to her in the past.

It didn't take long to flip to the page of her address book, though she'd memorized the number. Her fingers trembled as she dialed, and once again, she wondered why she hadn't listened to her friend's whispered concerns about Hank. It had been like some little switch kept getting thrown, and all her worries would vanish, and she'd be there, swallowing his excuses and apologies again. She still probably wouldn't have married him except that she'd somehow ended up pregnant with Buffy, though she'd been using birth control.

:You've reached the office of Ms. Frost, please state your name and business.: The bland voice could only belong to the latest secretary.

"My name is Joyce, and my business is with Ms. Frost. She'll want to speak to me," Joyce replied, her voice sounding far calmer than she actually felt.

: Please hold for a moment.: The secretary's words conveyed a sense that she truly doubted someone as important as Ms. Frost would bother with this presumptuous caller, and there was a sudden rush of classical music.

After several minutes, the music stopped, replaced by a voice that held more warmth than the woman's business contacts would have believed. :Joyce! So lovely to hear from you. Please tell me that jerk hasn't left you crying again. Or maybe one of the girls this time? Your oldest is what, fourteen:

"Buffy's fifteen, and if I've been crying, it's only tears of relief. I've got the papers in front of me, signed and everything. It's over," Joyce explained.

:Wonderful: Emma purred. :Was there an ulterior motive to your call, dear:

"Apart from taking the moment to say, yes, you were right about him. I can't believe it didn't occur to me sooner, before it was too late, before Buffy, before... everything?" Joyce sighed, resting her hand on her head. "I was hoping that you might be able to help me find a place to move to. I'm now officially divorced, as of a half hour ago, but I need to be out of the house in three weeks or less, with the girls in school. The whole thing is a bit overwhelming."

:I've got a very good idea why you didn't realize, and this isn't the time for that discussion.: Emma's voice didn't quite cover her anger. :If you wouldn't mind my help, I can find you a place to stay, and schools for your girls. We can just put your oldest in the Academy, maybe both of them.:

"Buffy would do terrible in a military environment," Joyce murmured, trying not to laugh at the image of her rebellious cheerleader confronted with a drill sergeant. She'd probably start asking him about proper baton grips and twirls. "But I'd love a bit of help finding a place to live, maybe a job if that's not too much. I've been working in an art gallery, but if I'm moving out of LA, that won't last."

Emma's laughter was a charming trill. :No, I didn't mean a military school, I meant the Frost Academy. That way I could help you keep an eye on her. And how old was Dawn?"

"Ten. It feels like only yesterday, she was just learning to walk, but she's ten almost eleven already. Her birthday's next month," Joyce mused.

:Hmm... Recently, a group of special students joined the school; they're about Dawn's age. If you think she might be able to keep up... They could use a bit of outside challenge.:

"Outside challenge? Gifted twins, or something?" Joyce asked.

:Quintuplets, actually.: Emma sounded thoughtful. :They could almost be my younger sisters, looking at them. Or clones... I might want to check into that, actually.:

"Remind me to ask you more about your interesting life after college sometimes," Joyce drawled. "I think Dawn could cope."

:Delightful. I'll make some arrangements.: Emma stated, her tone a statement that things would happen.

end part 1.

Emma had things arranged in under a week. The girls were enrolled, there was a list of jobs at museums and art galleries, and a note that suggested they just live in one wing of Emma's house, since she had fifteen bedrooms. Joyce had smothered laughter as she read that, agreeing that Emma could surely find a corner to tuck them into.

Dawn hadn't complained too much about moving, muttering something about the school there being full of losers, and who needed them anyhow? Buffy had complained and pouted until Joyce had mentioned that they would be moving to Boston, and then moved to a shocked sulk.

Emma met them at the airport, dressed in a white suit that had an unbuttoned jacket over what looked like a white corset. The years had obviously been good to Emma, though the limited color scheme - white clothing, pale skin, almost white hair... Joyce smirked, "Aren't you taking the whole frost thing a bit too far, Em?"

"No, I'm dressing to make an impression. You'd be amazed how effective it is in the boardroom," Emma replied.

"Mom, who is she, and what does she do for a living?" Buffy demanded in a whisper.

Joyce frowned at Buffy, having a few ideas what her daughter was thinking. "Her name's Emma, I went to college with her, and she's got a corporation and a school. A school, might I add, where you and Dawn will be attending."

"Your carry-on luggage has been taken to the car, and the rest of your things have been sent on to the house already," Emma explained, motioning for them to follow her. "I've got a car for us, you'll be staying at my place, at least for now."

"Will there be room? I thought places to live were hard to find," Dawn offered.

"Inherited wealth has a few perks. We get all the nice toys and playgrounds," Emma waved a hand as it dismissing the worry. "If it makes you feel better, I'll keep you confined to the North wing."

"A limo! Cool!" Buffy gasped, darting towards the long white car. It seemed like the only thing needed to make her forget her sullen dismay was a shiny, expensive car.

Joyce managed to restrain her amusement for the car ride, though it was hard, seeing the way her girls were so excited. She gasped at Emma's mansion, and the girls flung the door open, racing out and up the front stairs. "It's huge, Emma."

"I'm sorry, Joyce. I didn't want to say anything in front of your girls, but I think I know why you didn't dump Hank in college," Emma murmured, sounding sad.

"It wasn't your fault, right?" Joyce turned to look at her friend, remembering the times that they'd stayed up late talking about everything and nothing. Emma had been beautiful in college, now she was breathtaking.

"No, it was Astrid's. She was a telepath, and she was... I think she was afraid that we'd start dating, so she manipulated you. She made you forget about Hank's flirtations, made you accept his pitiful excuses and apologies, made you take him back time and again." Emma was nearly hissing, clearly still outraged and furious.

"Back up a moment, you said..." Joyce blinked, thinking back to Emma's annoying friend. She couldn't really remember Astrid clearly, which didn't feel right, but... "I know she didn't like me, but... She's fuzzy. What do you mean, she thought we'd start dating?"

"She thought you might be interested in me, as a better option than Hank. She played with people's minds," Emma explained.

For a few moments, Joyce considered that, and the way that she'd been in college. "I wouldn't have."

"Oh?" Emma lifted one eyebrow, leaning forward just a little. "And just why not? I know you dated Susan Conway."

"I wouldn't have been brave enough to ask you out. You were always so confident, so sure of yourself. Not to mention that I was fairly certain you liked men." Joyce stated. "I was a bit of a coward back then."

"What about now?" Emma's words were soft, and Joyce wasn't even certain that her friend's lips had moved.

"Now, I'm a bit more confident about myself. I know who I am, and what I want," Joyce smiled, and one hand moved just a little towards Emma. "What I don't know is... Did Astrid have any reason to worry?"

"How did you feel in college?" Emma didn't quite answer, but she moved a little closer, her fingers not quite touching Joyce.

"I wasn't about to make a move, but you were beautiful then, Emma. You still are." Joyce smiled, part of her mind wondering how different things might have been. If she would have enjoyed being with Emma, if they would have lasted. But if she hadn't been involved with Hank, she wouldn't have had her girls. She couldn't imagine not having them, even when they were frustrating.

"Deep thoughts, Joyce?" Emma's voice was soft, gently reminding her of the rest of the world, so unlike Hank's demanding interruptions.

"What if's, mostly. One of the most useless ways to spend my time, I suppose, lord knows I've been told that often enough. I just... would life have been easier, better, less frustrating if I'd never married Hank? But if I hadn't, I wouldn't have my girls." Joyce verbalized.

"Everybody wonders how things might have gone," Emma murmured. "Time to get you inside, there's school information that you need to look over and sign, as the parent. Job opportunities, because you never could just spend the whole day doing nothing. And..." Emma paused, a hint of a smile on her lips, "I have a tub of strawberry ice cream. I'm fairly certain that it was your favorite."

Joyce smiled, remembering the weekends that she and Emma would stay up late, watching bad television and eating ice cream, talking until they crashed in the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes it amazed her that they ever managed to pass their classes. "You're too good to me, Em."

"Not good enough, Joyce. Not good enough," Emma countered, leading her into the mansion.

End part 2.

Joyce gave herself the first day as a semi-vacation. She unpacked some clothing, arranged her bath items in a decadent room that had a tub big enough for a small orgy, and lounged on a couch with Emma, catching up on the last sixteen years in far more detail than the occasional phone call would permit. Her justification was that hunting for a job would be easier when she was on East Coast time instead of California time, but the truth was that she didn't want to let Emma out of her sight, for fear that her friend would vanish. She couldn't imagine why she hadn't tried harder, stayed in more contact, maybe visited occasionally...

"I told you, it was Astrid. She was afraid we'd become lovers, and since she wanted me for herself, the idea was intolerable to her. Especially since you're not a telepath," Emma sighed, lounging in silken pajamas that were almost sheer. Slowly, she licked the double fudge ice cream from her spoon, and grinned. "Her meddlings seem to be wearing off, which I bet she never expected."

"While I did date a few girls in college, I don't recall you ever doing the same," Joyce countered. "Where would she have even gotten that idea? Unless... was she prying into my mind? Reading my thoughts? I know that more than once, I had a few rather appreciative thoughts about you…"

Emma sighed, and lifted Joyce's feet, letting them rest on her lap. "Probably. I know she made you take Hank back at least twice, and fuzzed your memories so that you'd swallow his excuses and apologies. I think she put something there, a compulsion, to make you stay with him, no matter how much of a jerk he was. I know she did things like that to other people."

"All I can remember is that she was tall, had dark hair, and she was a bitch. I couldn't stand her, and I could never figure out why..." Joyce murmured. "I hope something unpleasant happened to her."

"She got locked in her skull, and was diagnosed as comatose," Emma offered, her gaze distracted. "I'm not sure if she'll ever find her way out and back from what I did. She tried to get into my head and make a few changes."

"Harsh," Joyce commented, digging up another spoonful of ice cream. "Someone should probably tell you that something like that isn't very nice, and you should be careful not to get caught."

"I'm surprised that you aren't wagging a finger at me saying 'shame, shame Emma.' Of course, your lack of sincerity is overwhelming..." Her eyes sparkled, and she took another bite of ice cream.

"That's because I learned years ago that you have very little shame about some things," Joyce retorted. "But I mean it; don't get caught if you decide to lock up the scary people personally, inside their own skulls. Someone's probably lobbied for a law against it, since we've had people who actually lobbied to try and register mutants."

"What on earth would make you say such a thing?" Emma arched one eyebrow, with an expression that would have looked coolly arrogant without the smudge of ice cream on her lip. "Are you implying that I might act less than within the bounds of proper law?"

With a hint of pink, Emma glanced down, licking at the smudge.

"Apart from spending two years at the same collage as you? Apart from seeing what you consider suitable corporate attire?" Joyce smirked, and then whispered, "I remember you so drunk that you couldn't walk straight. I remember what you said, and how in the morning, you didn't ask someone to shoot you for the memories, you just demanded the negatives, and tried to smother yourself in the pillow when the aspirin didn't work fast enough."

"That would do it," Emma muttered. "I should know better than to try that with someone who remembers my youthful indiscretions."

"They took pictures because you were dancing on the tables. Even then, it was only because you were doing a better job than the paid dancers," Joyce teased. "I still have a few copies, actually."

"What! How?" Emma gasped. "And I shouldn't have been better, I was tapping their heads for whatever it was I was doing on the tables in the first place."

"There's advantages to having negotiable tutoring rates when the running-back needs to pass his art history exam or else." Joyce smirked, and added, "They make a nice little album."

"You said you worked at an art gallery, there was nothing said about albums." Emma was surprised, but she didn't sound quite as appalled as she was trying to.

Joyce nodded, and leaned back, taking another bite of her ice cream. "Didn't I ever tell you about my aunt with her obsession for scrap-booking? Since she'd also traveled a lot, I spent time there, looking over her pictures of the world. I learned a few things. It's not professionally done, and there are no records, but it's a nice little album. Maybe I'll show you some time."

"Should I offer to be good," Emma had a teasing sparkle in her eye, "Or should I offer to be bad?"

Joyce felt a tingle go through her spine, though she wasn't certain if it was the ice cream's cold catching up, or anticipation. "I have no doubts that you could make either strategy effective."

Emma held up another bite of ice cream, as if in a salute. "If you're going to do something, do it right."

Joyce laughed, and as she scraped at the bottom of her ice cream, she sighed. "We've talked, we've laughed, the ice cream's gone, or at least mine is. I should probably go get some rest, especially since I wanted to start checking some of those potential job opportunities out."

"You can stay here as long as you need a place. Don't let anyone bully you into taking less than you deserve by making you feel desperate," Emma cautioned. "Besides, I like having someone around that I can… well, someone I can relax with. Someone that doesn't expect me to be the corporate CEO, or the Headmistress."

"I won't," Joyce promised. "After seventeen years of Hank, I think I can spot those lines. The problem will be not ripping them into shreds as his proxy if they do try that."

Emma just laughed, "I know some wonderful cleaners. They can get just about anything out of any fabric, and they do leather as well."

Joyce snickered as she made her way back to her opulent room, stretching out on a bed big enough for three. She dreamed of white, and of soft, teasing delights.

End part 3.


	2. parts 4 and 5

Morning found Joyce wandering through long corridors, certain that she smelled coffee. All she had to do now was find Emma's kitchen, or possibly a dining room…

"Morning, Joyce," Emma's voice called out. "I have coffee and paperwork for you."

"I assume the coffee is the bribe to get me to do the paperwork?" Joyce teased, following Emma's voice. Instead of a dining room, she found herself in a room that was almost cozy, with thick, soft carpets and overstuffed leather couches around a gleaming steel and glass table. It would have been wonderfully cozy if not for the fact that the carpets and the couches were both white. "Em, there is such a thing as taking the frosty thing too far."

Emma chuckled, and patted the couch beside her. Today, she was clad in a pair of white trousers and a white blouse with pearly buttons, the fabric thin enough to cling and look almost translucent along the sleeves. The first impression was business-like formality, the second was a powerful sense of Emma as a sexual creature. There was also a stack of papers in front of her, beside a half full white coffee mug.

Pouring a cup of coffee for Joyce, Emma just chuckled. "Actually, I didn't decorate this room, my father did."

Joyce accepted the coffee, wrapping her fingers around it as she inhaled the scent. "Are those school papers for my girls? You mentioned that your school was fairly exclusive… I know that Buffy's not the best of students. She's smart enough, but she's so easily distracted."

"As a small secret, not all of the students at the Frost Academy are intellectually gifted," Emma admitted. "Some of them are merely average academically or athletically, but they happen to be their wealthy parents' little darling. There are also a few that are listed as special students, for abilities that aren't academic at all…"

"You mean mutants, don't you?" Joyce took a careful sip of the coffee, not wanting to burn her tongue. "Would there be any danger of uncontrolled mutant powers causing problems? Or, considering Astrid from college, of controlled mutant abilities causing them instead?"

"Yes, I mean mutants, and we are very careful to avoid any accidents, be they from mutant abilities or any other source," Emma replied, sipping at her own coffee. "Were you worried?"

"Emma, they're my girls. It's my job to worry about their safety. I don't want any buildings to collapse on them, or for them to be unfortunately caught near explosions or fireballs, or to have someone meddle with their minds the way Astrid apparently did to me. I'm just as worried that some bully might try to push them into a wall as some mutant accidentally causing an explosion," Joyce paused, and sipped at her coffee while trying to gather her thoughts. "I have faith that you'll be trying your best to watch over everything, but you can only be in one place at a time, and I worry about them."

"That does make sense," Emma agreed, sipping at her own coffee. Handing Joyce some papers, she sighed, "I wish more of the parents were as honestly worried as you are. Too many worry about whether their precious spawn will meet the children of wealthy businessmen, political figures, or those who simply have more wealth than they should have access to."

"Are any of them the sort of people that my girls might become friends with?" Joyce asked, worried about her daughters being thrown into such a den of status-obsessed shallow twits and conniving twerps.

"Honestly, Joyce, all of them aren't like that. I think there are some that would get along wonderfully with Dawn. Why don't I introduce them over lunch?" Emma offered, smiling over her coffee. "The Stepford girls are just about Dawn's age, and they find it rather hard to make friends."

"Why? Surely the students in your school wouldn't be thinking of that movie, it's probably older than most of them," Joyce snickered. "How many Stepford girls do you have in your school anyhow?"

"They're a set of identical quintuplets." Emma sipped at her coffee, and then added, "They're also considerably smarter than most of their age group, which doesn't help."

Joyce considered that. Dawn had more problems making friends than Buffy, and it might be nice to give her a chance to meet some of her future classmates ahead of time. The question became what to do with Buffy to prevent her from being bored to tears at a meeting of eleven-year old girls. Of course, Buffy would probably say that she needed a whole new wardrobe for her new school…

"I can have one of my assistants take Buffy shopping while Dawn meets the Stepfords," Emma offered. "She can also try to get some idea what kind of classes Buffy should be in at the Academy. Her transcripts were less than helpful, and her test scores seem to have been rather erratic over the past year."

"I think that's related to the divorce," Joyce offered, her voice dropping as she remembered the whole horrible mess. She didn't want Emma to think badly of her older daughter, after all. "It wasn't precisely quick or painless, and Buffy was always closer to her father."

Emma nodded thoughtfully. "Then, as a certified psychologist, I prescribe retail therapy. What you've mentioned about her and some of what I've learned about people in general suggest that it will help her, a great deal in the short run, and if she has an experience like that so soon after moving here, it will give her a better attitude to start the classes with, setting her off with a much better start. I insist that you let me handle everything."

"But Emma, she's my daughter. How can I let…" Joyce started to protest, aware of her daughter's expensive shopping trips.

"Token protest lodged and ignored, darling. I have far more money than any one woman personally needs, and absolutely no reason not to use some of it to help you out. A few shopping trips in the area will be absolutely no problem. If I were being extravagant, I'd send her and an assistant to Paris, but her transcripts make it rather clear that she doesn't speak French." Emma grinned, and then winked. "Besides, I think the Stepfords will have a lot more problems with the school than Buffy, so I can also justify this as helping quite a few of my students as well as a favor to you."

Joyce smiled, remembering several occasions in college where Emma had taken a similar approach. "You're dangerous when you combine that attitude about your money with a few drinks. Remember our junior year?"

"It isn't my fault that Amber brought up tattoos," Emma protested.

"No, you just offered to pay for them for the whole group," Joyce returned. "I'm just glad that mine was something small. I still don't know why you decided that you wanted yours there…"

Emma just laughed. "That was a long time ago, Joyce. You just have Dawn ready to go out for lunch, and I'll make sure that Karen has Buffy out for at least six hours shopping."

End part 4.

Buffy hadn't really even tried to protest the shopping trip. She'd asked a few questions, but once she found out that Dawn wouldn't be going, and that her mom would have to stay behind to take care of some paperwork, she was content with the idea, and then ecstatic at the idea of having the whole day to find 'a whole new wardrobe to fit in at the new school'. It almost hurt Joyce's feelings to see how eager Buffy was to leave without them.

"Mom, aren't I going to need new clothes too?" Dawn asked, her eyes fixed on the door that Buffy and one of Emma's assistants had closed behind them. "I mean, it's not like I had that much, and I have been growing lately…"

"Yes, but there was something else that we had planned for today. Emma thought that you might get along fairly well with some of the current students, and she wanted to introduce you to them today after lunch. She said the girls are about your age," Joyce smiled, and patted Dawn's hand. "You'll have your chance for a shopping trip too, don't worry."

"Why does she think I'll get along so well with these girls? Or maybe she's just hoping I will…" Dawn muttered, twisting a small gold ring around her finger. "You know that Buffy's the popular one, not me."

For a moment, Joyce debated asking Dawn where she'd gotten the ring, but decided that it had probably been one of Hank's many apology-gifts for his daughters. "Maybe she is hoping. But Emma said that the Stepford girls were ahead of their age group academically, like you are, and that quite a few people find them unsettling."

"Why? Is there something wrong with them?" Dawn asked, looking up. "Do I need a jacket?"

"No, you don't need a jacket. As for why, Emma said that the girls are identical quintuplets, and that they really don't have any friends besides their sisters." Joyce moved towards the door, wondering which car they'd be going to lunch in, and what sort of place it would be. "I suppose most people would find five look-alike girls moving around together a bit unusual."

"Like clones… I'm not sure if that would be cool or freaky," Dawn mused.

"Why don't we meet them before making that decision?" Joyce commented, picking up her purse. "Emma mentioned that Mrs. Stepford would rather that the meeting take place at the school…"

The trip from Emma's mansion to Emma's school wasn't particularly long, though some of the scenery was impressive, in a rich and not terribly personalized sort of way. The school looked more like an expensive college, with multiple buildings, immaculate flowerbeds, shade trees, and a small pond with a fountain. Joyce wasn't surprised that all of the buildings seemed to be composed of steel, glass, and white marble, continuing the 'frosty' color scheme that all of Emma's possessions seemed to follow.

"Wow… I'm going to be going to school here?" Dawn whispered, eyes wide.

"Of course you will, Dawn. Looking at your transcripts, you're certainly qualified, and if Joyce wasn't such a good friend as to have been in touch with me, I'm certain that one of the school's people would have been paying you a visit to try to lure you over here in a few years anyhow. We also cover college, though some of the classes share building space," Emma replied. "If you keep studying and applying yourself, there's very little reason why you couldn't have a degree from the Academy by the time you're twenty."

"What if I want to have a life as well as good grades?" Dawn whispered, glancing at Emma.

"Then it might take you a little longer," Emma shrugged. "I don't forbid my students from having friends, from dating, or enjoying themselves, within certain ethical and legal limits. I also urge certain cautions, which I doubt that you'd be old enough to be needing."

Joyce frowned, thinking about some of the implications. Did Emma mean sex, drinking, or tattoos – all of which she knew that Emma had indulged in at least once. Dawn probably wouldn't even think about those things, hopefully not for quite a few years yet.

:Yes Joyce, I mean sex, alcohol and tattoos or piercings. If I can't keep the little terrors from experimenting, I can at least try to keep them relatively safe while they figure out things. I monitor for binges, I keep a mental ear out for any sort of extreme fear that would indicate an attack, and I try to be alert for any signs of meddling like what Astrid used: Emma's voice slipped into Joyce's mind, entirely bypassing her ears. :But you're right, Dawn's too young to be considering sex, alcohol's got a vague presence as one of the things at her father's dull office parties, and tattoos or any peircings past the ears are in a box labeled 'not for me – too scary' in her mind.:

Joyce blinked, slightly reassured and slightly worried. Pushing the worry back for now, she decided to have a few words with Emma later about snooping on her daughters' thoughts. For now, they would be meeting the Stepfords. She really hoped that Emma was right about the girls getting along with Dawn, and not just academically.

Emma led them down a hallway with pale gray carpeting, and pushed open a pale wooden door. Inside was an oval table, with a woman about Joyce's age, dressed in a rather expensive pale blue suit with a triple strand pearl necklace gleaming against a pink blouse. Her face had a curiously taut look, leading Joyce to suspect some measure of plastic surgery, and the woman's light brown hair was coifed sleekly into something that looked like it belonged in a magazine. There were five girls, slightly shorter than Dawn, with light blond hair just touching their shoulders, pale blue eyes, and flawless skin. They were dressed identically, in white blouses and blue and white checked skirts, with black patent leather shoes. Their expressions were almost as blank as their mother's.

Emma gave a small smile, "Joyce, this is Maria Stepford, and her daughters, Phoebe, Esme, Sophie, Celeste and Mindee. Girls, this is Dawn Summers and her mother, Dawn will be joining you at school."

Joyce nodded politely, privately deciding that the girls might be better off with a bit of distance from their mother. The impression that she got was that their mother was trying to control them quite firmly, though she wouldn't have been able to explain that idea for all the tea in China, to borrow an expression from her grandmother. She really hadn't seen enough to tell more than that yes, the Stepford girls did seem identical, and they were pretty.

Speaking in unison, the Stepford girls offered a polite, "Hello Mrs. Summers, Dawn. It's very nice to meet you."

End part 5.


	3. parts 6 and 7

Joyce nodded her head as Maria Stepford droned on about some sort of heritage club. Something about tracing their ancestry back several centuries… the Mayflower? Mrs. Stepford certainly seemed quite impressed by it, and seemed to think that Joyce should be equally impressed. After all, Maria could trace back through five different ancestors, and she was on several committees…

She was only pretending to care because behind Mrs. Stepford's back, she could see the Stepford girls and Dawn talking. They seemed to be trying to get to know each other, and several times, she caught sight of smiles. Even if it was the empty chatter about television, clothing, and pets, the girls were smiling. She felt that Dawn could use a friend, or several, and if keeping this woman's attention on her for a while let it happen, well, she'd suffered worse.

Finally, Mrs. Stepford left the meeting room, muttering something about her cell-phone and a personal call. Joyce just nodded, noticing that the girls had somehow slipped out of the room earlier. Glancing at Emma, she slumped back in the chair with a sigh. "Do you have to deal with many mothers like her?"

"Yes. Of course, she's worried that I'll treat her little darlings oddly because there are five of them, and all she really wants them to do is get just enough culture and education to marry the sons of a few powerful old families…" Emma shook her head. "There are quite a few mothers and fathers who are very much like her."

"No wonder you indulge so much at home," Joyce mused. Her mind contemplated the wonderful meals prepared by Emma's cooks, the luxurious house, the decadent bathtubs…

"The girls are giving Dawn a tour of the school. I assured them that you wouldn't mind," Emma smiled, clearly amused about something.

"When? I don't recall hearing them mention anything like that. I should have noticed, even if she was going on and on about tracing her family back to the Mayflower…"

"They're telepaths, Joyce. It wasn't out loud," Emma paused, her eyes half lidded. "I'm not actually sure if their mother realizes, but I doubt it. She'd probably be quite dismayed. While she isn't actively campaigning against mutants, she doesn't think they're quite the right sort of people. Undoubtedly, her girls know that."

Joyce nodded, knowing just how good children could be at picking up how their parents felt about things, even when they didn't understand why. "I'd extend an invitation for them to come over and visit Dawn, but I'd feel odd about inviting people into your house. They seem to be getting along nicely."

"Don't worry; I'll be sure to extend the invitation. You've gone above and beyond the call of motherly duty today," Emma moved closer, her hand settling on Joyce's shoulder. "Maria Stepford is quite the social animal. I'd call her a social climber except that she's already fairly close to the top."

"Then she's trying to carve in claims for her daughters then. Each one to marry a respected and wealthy young man and bear a couple perfect children to securely build her a dynasty, and heaven forbid that they ever disagree with her or the husbands that she's planning to choose for them…" Joyce shuddered. "And you have a whole school with parents like that? I'm truly sorry, Emma."

"That's why I have the elegant wardrobe, the vast mansion, and more money that I could ever spend. I make them pay quite a bit for an elite academy for their spawn. Of course, for those who I actually want to bring here, I make certain things are much more manageable. It's just unfortunate that there are so few special students," Emma sighed. "Now, I suggest we retrieve your daughter, invite the girls to visit, and then go home. I hear chocolate calling to us."

Dawn spent the whole car ride back talking about her new friends. Apparently, they had talked about all sorts of things, and had a wonderful lunch. At least one of her girls was happy with the way things were starting with their new life. The Stepford girls would be over the day after tomorrow, officially to help Dawn catch up for her schoolwork.

Joyce found herself hoping that Buffy would adjust as easily.

What none of them knew was that a group of people were currently very concerned with Joyce's older daughter as well. More to the point, they wanted to know where Buffy Summers was now that she was no longer living in Los Angeles, and why she hadn't gone to the Hellmouth as they'd attempted to arrange. Expelled from Hemery High after a case of arson that they'd carefully made certain caused enough outrage and concern to bar her from any other school in L.A., there should have been nothing to interfere with carefully laid plans to force her now-single mother to move them away to a small, less expensive town a few hours north. A town with plenty of real estate for sale, and a school that had already been paid not to ask too many questions.

Now, their careful plans were unraveling. The Slayer had not gone to the Hellmouth. Their agent had assumed when the family had gone to the airport that they would be in Sunnydale shortly, as their house was already sold, but he hadn't bothered to verify if Joyce Summers had contacted a Sunnydale real estate agent. They hadn't even considered that the woman wouldn't follow their expectations. With no relatives and few job connections, they hadn't bothered to look further.

With the Slayer vanished, who would defend the Hellmouth? Without their weapon, what would the Council do?

End part 6.

Dawn had retreated to her room to evaluate her clothing and see what she thought she'd need. Apparently Mindee was quite interested in fashion, having considered being a model or maybe a fashion designer when she was older, and they'd chatted about what was considered 'in' in this area. Of course, Dawn would probably come up with a long list of other things that she'd like to have.

"Don't worry, Joyce. I can afford to buy her just about anything that she'd like without it making a dent in my finances," Emma assured.

"It's going to take a while to get used to you knowing what I'm thinking," Joyce commented, glancing at Emma.

"Does it bother you?" Emma asked, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows. "Sometimes it's very hard not to read somebody."

"Actually, I worry more about you dipping into my girls' heads more than you in mine," Joyce explained. "It feels like an unfair advantage over them."

"I'll try not to look too closely then. But I do try to keep aware for certain things at the school, more of a general overview than looking deeply into anyone's head." Emma leaned one elbow on the table, and looked at Joyce. "I have also found that sometimes, the little darlings at school need someone to keep an eye on them in case of them attempting something they really shouldn't do."

Joyce nodded, thinking that she'd known a few bad eggs in her youth, and there was no reason to think that human nature would change that much in so little time. Of course, she'd feel much better if nobody like that was ever anywhere near either one of her daughters, but that would be too much to hope for. Buffy, with her persistent efforts to be one of the popular crowd, would be in considerable danger of bad influences, especially if the popular crowd had dangerous tastes. After all, the popular crowd in Hank's school had been into muscle cars and street racing, and the in-crowd at Hemery seemed to be into parties…

"And that's why I try to watch out for them, Joyce," Emma's voice was soft, and she reached out to cover Joyce's hand with her own. "I want them to be safe at my school. Some of them don't have anyone else who worries about them, not for themselves, and others need all the help they can get."

"So that they don't end up like we were back in college?" Joyce tried to smile, remembering herself so many years ago. She hadn't realized that life wasn't a game, and that her actions would hold consequences, she'd never imagined herself ending up a mother, moving away from everyone she knew, or trying to hold together a disintegrating relationship. And Emma… she'd wondered if Emma hadn't done half the things that she had simply because it would make her parents angry.

Emma laughed, "I'm quite certain that there were people far worse than we were, Joyce. We just did things with more style… or at least I did. I wanted to make it clear that nobody was pulling my strings anymore, that I would make up my own mind."

"How many things did you get pushed into doing as a sign of that?" Joyce smiled, leaning back in her chair.

"Too many, and looking back, a lot of them were either resulting from conversations with Astrid or my father. Things that I did because my father didn't want me to, or because the only other telepath I knew about thought they were good ideas. If I could start over…" Emma sighed. "Who hasn't said that at least once?"

"I might have found a job," Joyce offered, letting the subject of college and regretted actions fall aside. "There's a gallery, apparently owned by a woman who's got an interest in art, but claims to have no formal art education. She said she wanted to hire someone to manage it for her, and to find and arrange showings for other artists."

"Other? That rather strongly implies that she already knows and has one in mind. What's the catch?" Emma replied.

"Her lover. From the pattern of what she didn't say, I rather got the impression that she assumed I'd find something shocking about the unnamed lover, and that several people have taken that as an excuse to find jobs elsewhere. When her lover has enough works for a showing, her lover gets one, regardless of who else I may have found," Joyce explained. "I said I'd take the proposed contract home to look over the benefits and salary that she's offering and get back to her."

"What do you think about this mysterious lover?" Emma had kicked off her heels, and was rotating one ankle slowly.

"The lover in question is either a woman, married, or a mutant, possibly several of the above. Or maybe the lover is severely scarred. She said something about not being able to make appearances together, and that crowds were a bit of a problem," Joyce explained, thinking back to the woman with her short red hair and her oddly watchful gaze. The woman had seemed particularly polished… "Either she is trying to hide something about the artist who is her lover, or the lover is a cover for stolen goods, and I'd really like to find out before I take the job. If it's just a matter of a lover who falls outside the normal idea of acceptable, then I don't care. If they're selling stolen goods…"

"Where?" Emma straightened, her expression serious again.

Joyce produced a card for the gallery, passing it to Emma. "The woman was very polished, nicely dressed, a lovely redhead, she seemed particularly self confident. I'd almost say she seemed too polished."

Emma stared at the card for several moments, and then smiled. "I think I know who you mean. The gallery… an older building, with fake Grecian columns on the front?"

"Yes," Joyce nodded. "She introduced herself as Misty Adler, does that help?"

Emma chuckled, shaking her head slightly. "Oh, that clears everything up, though I'd never be able to prove it. If Misty Adler's who I think she is, then the artist is her lover. Both of them are mutants, and neither one of them will admit to an age. The person that I'm thinking of wouldn't stoop to selling stolen artwork. If she was going to break the law, it would be for something a good deal more spectacular, and probably involving a body count or at the very least some strong political repercussions."

"That helps. Other than my concern about stolen art, the job sounded quite interesting…" Joyce paused, considering things. Taking the job would make her feel better, she would have a job, have a measure of security and something enjoyable to do with her time. She wouldn't be free-loading off Emma's good will. Not that she was looking forward to trying to find a place to live on her own…

"You don't have to move out. I told you, you can stay as long as you want, so can the girls. If you want to look for a home, you can take your time about that, even if it takes quite a while," Emma reached out, her hand resting over Joyce's. "I like having you around."

Emma was smiling at her, those lovely blue eyes holding no impatience, nothing but honesty and concern. If she truly liked the company, there was no need to try to rush into another home. And she'd heard that the housing market over here was something else entirely, almost obscene at times. Emma was good company, and it was close to the school for her girls… why not stay? Her hand turned so that her palm faced Emma's, and her fingers separated, letting Emma's fall between them. "I like being here."

End part 7.


	4. parts 8 and 9

By the time Saturday rolled around, Joyce was feeling much better about life. Both of her girls had started classes at Emma's school, and while neither of them were particularly thrilled, they hadn't mentioned any disturbing complaints. She'd expected to hear a bit about not knowing anyone, not being able to find their way around the new school, having to learn new slang and fashions, and the usual complaints about teachers and homework. She'd heard all of those at length, but nothing about drugs, or about being threatened or attacked. Nothing about people being mean because they were new. So, her girls were settling in at their new school. She had a job, which made her feel considerably better about life, even though the books were a mess, the last person's handwriting was atrocious, and she had to arrange a showing for next week.

Dawn had gone over to visit the Stepford girls, and Emma had assured her that she'd be just fine. Just in case, Dawn had a cell phone so that she could call if anything happened. While a part of her wanted to keep her baby girl at home where she'd be safe, she resisted the urge. First, home wasn't always safe. Second, Dawn wasn't a baby and needed to be able to live and learn and grow. Third, smothering over-protectiveness either led to helpless adults or rebellious teens running away.

Pausing in the hallway, Joyce peeked in at Buffy's room, hoping that it wasn't as messy as the one in LA had been. Clothing in the closet and a few bags near the dressers. Shoes spilling out of the closet in an untidy heap – when would Buffy learn that they lasted longer when you didn't abuse them? Unmade bed with a pillow fallen to the floor. Jacket dropped beside the open window.

Seeing that jacket, Joyce felt her throat tighten and her stomach turn. Not again, oh please don't let Buffy be getting into fights again, not like she was back in LA those last few months… Her mind flashed to all the nights that Buffy had been out late, not admitting to where. To the strange injuries and bruises, to the stained and torn clothing. She couldn't feel anything else as she moved across the room, picked up the jacket and opened it up to take a good look.

Dirt and grass had stained the back of the shoulders and elbows. Something stiff was encrusted near the left cuff, a peculiar red-brown that suggested dried blood or soy sauce. It didn't smell like soy, it smelled horribly like blood.

Joyce had no idea how she'd gone from standing in Buffy's room to sitting in a chair facing Emma. Buffy's jacket was still clenched in her hands, and she couldn't feel anything. She blinked at the sight of a mug of coffee before her, and slowly looked at Emma. She lifted the jacket, unable to put words to what she was feeling.

Emma took the jacket from Joyce's hand, inspecting it very much the same way that Joyce had done in Buffy's room. One finger hovered near the stain on the cuff, and Emma looked over at Joyce, "This looks very much like blood. Is Buffy injured?"

"She didn't seem injured. This morning, she said she was going to go soak in the hot tub outside. Now that I think of it, there was a towel draped over that arm. If she was injured, she doesn't want me to know about it," Joyce picked up the coffee, unsurprised that her hands were shaking. Drinking the coffee, she couldn't tell if it was hot or not, only registering the taste of dark, strong coffee. "I'm afraid things are going to go the same way that they did before. Fights, staying out too late, telling lies about where she's been, and then she burned down part of her school."

"My school probably has superior fire prevention measures," Emma commented, looking again at the jacket. "These other stains… I'd say that it looks like she was fighting."

"I don't want it to happen again," Joyce whispered. "I don't know if I could bear to go through it all again."

"It won't," Emma promised, her voice denying the faintest possibility that things would go against her wishes. "We'll make sure that even if she is seeking out fights, things won't go that far."

As Joyce sipped the coffee, she began to feel again. She could hope that Emma was right, that they could keep disaster at bay. As she drained the last of her coffee, she found herself wondering just how far they'd need to go to keep things from repeating.

End part 8.

Emma leaned back in the chair, closing her eyes. It really wasn't prying to do a simple check to find who was in the area and check the general feel of their mind. For a telepath, it wasn't any different than stepping out the front door and looking around.

Joyce was in the room with her, prickly with worry under the slick shock of finding her daughter's jacket, cold with fear that it would start all over again. Fragmentary memories of clothing stained with dirt, blood and less easily identifiable marks, torn and slashed. Half concealed bruises on Buffy's body. Reports of Buffy skipping school or getting into fights. A burning building.

Pierre was in the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast, contemplating the merits of shrimp for tonight, and wondering how long the ladies Summers would stay. Other than his contemplations of menus, there was a few admiring thoughts about a cute vegetable merchant in town, and hazy thoughts of alone-time.

Patrick was in the garage, tinkering under the hood of her Porsche. His mind was filled with calculations of torque, horsepower, and fuel usage. Emma left his mind quickly, content to leave him playing with the car. As long as he kept it running well, she didn't care about the details.

Kelly was vacuuming the hallway on the third floor, debating if she could afford that cute red dress so she could go to a party this weekend. Her mind was filled with harmless thoughts of her job, two cute guys that she wanted to get to know better, and her sister who was dating 'that weird artist'.

Buffy was soaking in the hot tub, with worries and teen angst. Emma was about to move on when she caught a deep worry that 'they' would find her again, tied to a regret that she 'couldn't just give it up' – whoever 'they' were, and whatever 'it' was. She didn't quite pry, but she had the feeling that both of those thoughts were tied to the sneaking around and the fighting that Buffy had been doing.

Further from the house, there were the expected people driving past on their way to assorted places, a few people driving by just to look enviously at homes that they couldn't afford, a few secret lovers, an assortment of household staff. Children idling at home, bored spouses lounging, or preparing for golf, or aerobics, or socializing.

Farther away, she could feel familiar minds. Even though she wasn't looking for them, she could feel the Stepford girls to the west. Several of her former students, in every direction. Old enemies. Business rivals.

Life was proceeding normally all around her. Nothing else had caught her attention, nothing more pressing than Joyce's concerns and Buffy's inspecific concerns about 'them'. Joyce would feel better if she could figure out who 'they' were, what they wanted with Buffy, and how to ensure that Buffy wasn't out beating up helpless mutants, or any other group of people.

Damn the fact that she'd promised herself not to go snooping into Joyce or her daughters' minds. She wouldn't ignore thoughts shouted, or directed towards her, but she wouldn't go dipping into memories, prying at dreams, or borrowing their eyes. Finding out what Buffy was hiding would be so much easier if she just went the direct route. But the cost of that would be too high. Joyce didn't care that she was a mutant, that she could read minds, or that she was a very wealthy woman. Joyce didn't care about the mutation, and liked her in spite of the wealth. But if she broke into Joyce's daughter's mind… That would be an unforgivable crossing of a line.

Sometimes things would be much less tempting if she was 'ordinary'. No telepathy to let her peek into the minds of others, no fortune to let her buy on a whim what other people considered out of reach. But she'd never been ordinary before, and wasn't likely to start anytime in the future.

"Of course, telepathy isn't the only way to learn things. Now that we know Buiffy's hiding something, we watch for how she's hiding it and the pattern to her behavior. Everyone gives themselves away eventually, and she's only fifteen, it won't take that long," Emma voiced, knowing that Joyce would want to watch her daughter as well.

"And we won't let things get as bad this time. I won't have to fight you the way I had to fight Hank, and you won't try things just as a sign of having more power than me," Joyce agreed. "This time will be different."

"Exactly. The two adults in her life won't be focused on fighting each other, and when we figure out what she's doing and why she's hiding it… We'll decide the best way to deal with it," Emma promised.

Joyce nodded, not even giving a moments concern or dismay over the fact that Emma had stepped into a parental role for Joyce's children.

Delighted, Emma smiled. Troubling as Buffy's fighting and secrets were, this could be an excellent stepping stone to the future that Emma wanted.

End part 9.


	5. parts 10 and 11

Dawn had gone off for a day with the Stepford girls. Apparently, Mindee had convinced Mrs. Stepford that it would be a good thing to do to spend time 'cultivating Ms. Frost's guest', and now Maria Stepford couldn't offer enough outings for Dawn and her girls. Today was supposed to be something about horses. Joyce sighed, and wondered if she'd need to worry about Maria Stepford trying to meddle with Dawn, or rather, how much the woman would try to meddle.

"As much as she thinks she can get away with, naturally," Emma commented, curled on a chair. "She won't see it that way, but she will try to guide Dawn in the directions she thinks most beneficial for herself and her girls."

"Maybe we can turn that around, and try to help her girls step out of her shadow a little? Wouldn't they be happier being themselves, instead of extensions of Maria Stepford?" Joyce glanced at the clock, and sighed, "I'll need to go to work before too long. Maybe I should start looking into a car for myself, instead of using one of yours all the time."

"Joyce, I have plenty of cars, go ahead and use one. I have enough space that you and your girls aren't in the way, you aren't too expensive, and I like the company. You need to break that habit of thinking that you and the girls are a burden," Emma insisted.

"Habits are hard to change," Joyce whispered. "I've had a little over fifteen years to get stuck into that rut, I think it'll take more than a few weeks to get away from it."

"I suppose so. And I do think that you're right about the Stepford girls, they'll be much happier if they aren't Maria's little pawns and clones. I do wonder how much of their behaving alike is her influence and how much comes from them being mind-linked telepaths..." Emma mused.

"Oh, Buffy was asking if there were any good places to learn karate in the area. I thought maybe you could recommend one? Somewhere that she wouldn't be pushed to compete if she doesn't want, and maybe... Do you know any martial arts instructors that could help keep an eye on her? Maybe try to keep her from going out looking for fights?" Joyce looked at Emma, nibbling at her lip as she tried not to think of all the ugly ways that fighting could end for her daughter. Injuries worse than cuts, broken bones. Horrible scars. Her daughter, beaten, raped, possibly even killed. Ugly thoughts that she couldn't entirely force away.

"I have someone at the school. I arranged him to teach because of some of my special students, and he's quite good about working at them using his teachings responsibly," Emma paused, and sighed before admitting, "I had a student once who was in the habit of using his abilities to get whatever he wanted, when he wanted it. Entirely selfish, and rather irresponsible. That behavior got him killed, and several other students with him."

"I'm sorry," Joyce stood up, moving to stand beside Emma. "I can't imagine how terrible that must have been for you."

"I keep wondering if I could have taught them better, reined in some of their excesses. He wasn't the only one to indulge himself and enjoy what he could do that ordinary humans couldn't, but it was his actions that sparked that fatal disaster. If I'd been a better teacher, more worried about guiding them as responsible people instead of mutants with powers, would they still be alive? Would they have become the leaders of tomorrow, or would he still have been a self-absorbed hedonist? I can't know for certain, and it still bothers me on occasions. I've been much more careful in what I look for now, hiring instructors for the special ones. It isn't enough to stimulate their minds in the regular classes, or to teach them the ways to use their powers if they don't know that sometimes, it's better not to use them. Sometimes, it's a choice of what your goal is when you do something," Emma leaned against Joyce, closing her eyes.

"I have confidence that you won't make the same mistakes again," Joyce offered, rubbing at Emma's shoulder.

"So do I. I'm worried about what mistakes I'll make this time," Emma replied. "Not that I'd admit that to most people. I have too many enemies to be in the habit of admitting any vulnerabilities."

"You have me. Even if I can't help, you can be yourself with me, Emma. You can be afraid of making mistakes, upset over what happened, and you can let yourself enjoy chocolate ice cream at two in the morning. You can let yourself be human, be Emma instead of Ms. Frost, headmistress and corporate shark," Joyce said.

"You have no idea how much better that makes me feel," Emma smiled.

"Everybody needs to be able to relax once in a while," Joyce replied. "I'm just hoping that if I relax enough now, I won't give myself an ulcer when I have to explain the books to Ms. Adler this afternoon."

"Joyce, you passed accounting in college. You did better than I would have if I hadn't been able to lift some of the formulae from… Well, you did very good in that class. What's wrong with the books?" Emma had a smile as she asked.

"The last four people who were keeping them," Joyce retorted. "I'm just not sure if they were just really bad with figures or if they were trying to cause problems and lose money."

"Oh dear," Emma frowned.

"And you know how unhappy some people get towards the bearers of bad news," Joyce sighed. "If I end up jobless after this, at least you aren't planning to throw me out."

"Of course not," Emma assured. "Stay as long as you want."

"That could be a long time," Joyce whispered. "I like it here, and not just for the great big tub."

End part 10.

Joyce took a deep breath, and hoped that she wasn't about to loose her job. Picking up the accounting books, she walked into the office of her employer, Misty Adler – who had told her repeatedly to 'just call me Misty, and don't worry about the titles.'

Placing the pile of books on the edge of the desk, she sighed. Flipping open the top book, she started, "I've finished going through these books, and arranged the next showing for the gallery. Now for the bad news; the books are a mess. Between bad handwriting, uneven spacing, and bad math, you're in bad financial shape. I have no idea if it was bad math or bad ethics. Here is where things stand right now."

Taking the book, Misty frowned. Her eyes moved over the numbers, changing to an odd yellow color, even as her skin took on a faint blue cast before returning to the previous hue. "You're right, that is bad. I have a showing for you to arrange for six weeks from now."

"Works by your artist?" Joyce phrased it as a question, not expecting any other answer. "What name should I use for the announcements?"

"Her name is Irene Adler," Misty was smiling now, the expression far more gentle than anything Joyce had seen on her before. "She's my wife."

For a moment, Joyce blinked, absolutely certain that Misty was female, and Irene was definitely a woman's name. Then it clicked, "That's right, it's legal for same-sex couples to marry in this state. I'm still not used to that. California's still debating allowing something for long-term partners, and they don't have spousal privileges with children or hospitals."

One red eyebrow rose, "Is that a problem?"

"Just something to get used to, like the sun rising over the ocean instead of setting into it," Joyce shrugged. "Does she use her full name for the showings, or an initial?"

From there, they moved to the specifics of timing and the sort of pieces that Irene had ready. Fliers were discussed, and an announcement for the paper was worked out, for the normal placement in the arts pages. Most relieving for Joyce, she wasn't being shot or banished as the bearer of bad news.

*******

The fact that the Slayer hadn't gone to the Hellmouth was causing a considerable amount of panic among several circles. The Watchers Council was in an uproar, shocked and furious that the Slayer had slipped through their fingers. Their plans called for her to go to the Hellmouth; not to go elsewhere, to do what she wanted, to live her life other than according to their needs. Careful plans were shattered.

A few individuals took the time to point out that if they had taken her into their direct control, training and guiding her directly instead of sending one person to talk to a girl among the rest of the world, this wouldn't have happened. Council-raised Slayers never vanished like this. Others had said that if they had just stepped in and made themselves useful, offered to take her away for a 'special school', then a divorce in the family wouldn't have permitted her to vanish.

In another place, a demon in an appallingly plaid jacket slumped on a couch, staring at an empty house. The message had been clear – the Slayer would come to Sunnydale. She would live in that house, on Revello Drive, and he had to make certain that the souled vampire calling himself Angel took an interest in the Slayer. There had been plans. The Powers had decided how events should unfold, and who needed to be pushed to cause things to develop properly. Everything hinged on the Slayer living here.

The house had been sold. The new family had moved in last week, and he was pretty sure that he'd seen everybody.

A cheerful Hispanic woman that was just on the curvaceous side of well padded, the man in her life – presumably her husband – and four children, none of whom could be over ten. They had two dogs, a parrot, and an iguana.

No Slayer.

The Powers' plans had just been shot to pieces unless someone could find the Slayer soon. She wasn't on Revello Drive, she wasn't anywhere in Sunnydale. Whistler was just thankful that the Powers had phrased things as assigning him to work with the vampire instead of the Slayer. That meant that it wasn't his job to find the Slayer. He didn't envy whoever did get stuck with the job.

End part 11.


	6. parts 12 and 13

Joyce sighed at the pair of boots thrown at Buffy's closet. They were stained with mud and something that had started out orange and gooey. She didn't think it was Thousand Island salad dressing or Big Mac sauce. For that matter, Joyce had no idea what it had been, and she wasn't even sure that she wanted to know. A pair of jeans thrown into the laundry basket had grass and dirt over the knee and back. The sort of stains that said the person wearing them had been fighting.

Buffy was fighting again. The jacket hadn't been a one-time thing.

Leaving her daughter's room, Joyce decided that she'd have to have a talk with Emma about this. Even if all her friend could do was listen, that would be something. This wasn't 'all in her head', and she didn't think it was because she was neglecting her children. Instead of tossing blame, they needed a plan.

"Emma?" Joyce called out, uncertain if her friend was in the office.

White walls, white carpet, gleaming steel desk… No Emma. Joyce sighed and closed the door. Shaking her head, she made her way towards the kitchen. If she didn't find Emma, she could still get some cocoa.

"What's wrong, Joyce?"

Emma's voice stopped her half way down the hallway. Smiling, Joyce turned to face her friend, unsurprised at the white suit. She wasn't surprised that Emma had lost the heels either, remembering how often her friend had lounged around with bare feet and perfectly manicured toes back in college.

Taking a deep breath, she said, "It's Buffy. Can we talk?"

"Would I be wrong if I said that it looks like she's been fighting again?" Emma asked.

"I'm not going to ask if you guessed or read my mind," Joyce sighed. "I… I can't just hope that it will go away, or that relocating will fix things. Something has to be done."

Emma passed her a mug of cocoa. "First, drink this. We'll figure out what to do about Buffy. First, I think a good martial arts instructor could help, one who goes over the times and circumstances to fight and the times not to fight. It might not hurt for Dawn to have some lessons as well."

Joyce sipped at the cocoa, pulling her feet up onto the couch. "I feel like I've failed them somehow. Did I do something wrong, is it my fault that she's fighting so much?"

"You aren't responsible for everything, Joyce," Emma paused, one finger tapping against her mug. "I think some lessons for you might not be a bad idea."

"Emma, I don't need karate lessons," Joyce protested.

"There are nasty people out there, Joyce. Vile, terrible perverts who enjoy hurting people weaker than they are. I know. I've heard them thinking their twisted thoughts. You don't have that sort of early warning system. I want you to be safe," Emma insisted.

"But Emma…" Joyce started

"Exercise is also good for your health, tones your muscles, and can keep you looking years younger. How else do you think I keep the sort of figure that lets me wear some of what I have in my closet?" Emma countered. "And the flexibility can do wonders for your sex life."

"I thought the wardrobe was your complete lack of modesty?" Joyce sipped at her cocoa. Emma did have a point about exercise and health, and she had been thinking that her pants were feeling a bit snug…

"That may help," Emma admitted. "I hope you never need the lessons for anything more than ensuring you keep a trim waistline and gain a bit more flexibility,"

"Reading my mind, or was I thinking that loudly?" Joyce sighed.

"Loud thoughts," Emma replied, sinking onto the couch beside Joyce. She was just close enough that their knees touched. "Even if it bothers you a little, I'd rather you take the lessons and not need them than find yourself one day desperately wishing that you'd learned."

Joyce nodded, agreeing with that sentiment. "I reserve the right not to like the possibility of being attacked, and to complain about aches and stiffness after lessons."

Emma laughed, patting Joyce's knee with her hand, "That's what hot tubs are for, darling. Soak away the stiffness and aches. And no sane person enjoys the thought of being attacked and needing to fight."

"As opposed to other sorts of attacks?" Joyce arched one eyebrow, sipping at her cocoa.

"I've rarely objected to a lover surprising me," Emma murmured, glancing at Joyce through her lashes.

Joyce sputtered as the cocoa went down the wrong way.

Joyce was waiting as soon as the girls got home from school. Dawn was smiling, but Buffy had a small frown and seemed to be chewing on her bottom lip. She didn't bother trying to fight the dread and nervousness that inspired.

Stepping closer, she asked, "Buffy? Is something bothering you? Troublesome homework? A ten page report?"

"No, it isn't anything about school," Buffy shook her head, and dropped her bookbag beside the door. "It's just… I don't know if I'm imagining the whole thing. I probably am, so it's nothing to worry about. Really."

Joyce wasn't convinced.

"I'm going to go work on my math, and then I wanted to call Mindee, is that okay?" Dawn chirped, bounding up the stairs without even waiting for an answer.

"Buffy, the 'it's nothing really' line hasn't worked since you were eight. Talk to me," Joyce insisted, tugging her daughter towards a seat. "If I don't know what's wrong, I can't try to help."

Buffy let herself drop onto the sofa, one booted foot swinging towards the glass coffee table as she tucked the other underneath her. "For the last few days, I keep getting this weird feeling. Like I'm being watched. Like I'm not alone."

"You aren't alone at school," Joyce offered, certain that there was something else Buffy was meaning. Her daughter would know enough to expect people to watch any new student.

"Not just at school. I get this wiggy feeling when I'm out jogging, or when I go shopping. There's also this guy…" Buffy shivered, her hands reaching up to close over her elbows, as if she was giving herself a hug. "I keep seeing him wherever I go. He was at the mall, the one with the yellow and brown tiles. He was at the park. I saw him again at the beach. I think I saw him at school today."

"What about this guy?" Joyce felt a cold knot forming in her stomach. Why would some man be following her daughter? Spying on her? Unfortunately, she had a few ideas, and none of them were comforting.

"He's a little taller than Dad, and a bit thinner. He's got this horrible tan jacket, with darker patches on the elbows, and a matching hat," Buffy shook her head, uncurling a fraction. "Sort of like one of the old professor types on those late night movies you used to watch with Cassie down the street."

Joyce frowned, considering Buffy's words. "That doesn't sound like anybody that I know. I don't like this. I don't like the idea of you having some strange stalker following you around, watching you all the time. Who knows what else this man might take it in his head to try?"

"And what can we do about it? He hasn't talked to me, and I can't just say that he can't go to the beach, the park or the mall because he's fashion impaired," Buffy said.

"Emma knows someone who can give you some martial arts lessons. Karate or something," Joyce put the words out slowly, wondering if this stalker had any connection to Buffy fighting, or if it was just some horrible coincidence. "If he's just some strange but harmless man, then you won't need to worry about him. But if he turns out to be dangerous, I want you to be able to defend yourself."

"Mom, I don't need karate lessons!" Buffy protested, her eyes flashing. "I can handle myself!"

"Buffy, you're five foot two, and you can't be more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. I want you to be able to defend yourself, and that's final. I also hope that you never need that knowledge." Joyce tried to ignore the little voice that insisted that was the exact same logic that Emma had used against her earlier.

"Fine. But I really don't need any lessons," Buffy grumbled, a smile keeping her words from having the slightest sting.

Joyce tried to smile back. "Would it be less cool of me to say that I really hope you are imagining this person following you?"

"No," Buffy whispered. "It would be great if it was all my imagination."

Joyce couldn't figure out why Buffy looked as if she was fighting back tears with those words.

End part 12.

Joyce retreated to the room that she used as workspace, pulling out the tablet that held the information about the upcoming I. Adler art showing. She needed to work up the advertisements, and determine what else would need done beforehand. Would she need to bring in podiums for sculptures? Drapes to accent certain works, or to fill empty spaces between them?

Her mind kept returning to her talk with Buffy. About Buffy's worry over the strange man that she kept seeing, following her. About all the dangerous and terrible things that could happen to her daughter. While it was reassuring that Buffy would soon be in lessons with that instructor of Emma's, it didn't make Joyce stop worrying. Perhaps she should get Buffy some pepper spray, in case of an attacker?

"I can get some pepper-spray, but why are you considering giving some to Buffy?" Emma's voice came from the doorway.

"I talked with Buffy after the girls got home," Joyce began, not even realizing that she was referring to Emma's place as 'home'. Putting her pen down, she continued, "Buffy told me that she seems to have picked up a stalker. There's a man who keeps being in the same places that Buffy is, at the school, the mall, the beach, the park. He keeps watching her. It's bothering her a good deal more than she wants to admit."

"Has he done anything?" Emma frowned, moving into the room.

"Not that Buffy told me about. She said he hasn't even spoken to her. And you can't forbid someone from happening to be in the same public location," Joyce sighed. "I don't like it. Buffy doesn't like it. I told her that I'd feel much better if she took some karate lessons, and while she's insisting that she doesn't need any lessons, she agreed. I think she's humoring me."

"We'll have Dawn take some lessons as well," Emma said, sinking onto the second chair. "But I'm sure you already knew that. Have you brought the idea up with Dawn yet?"

"Not as such," Joyce smiled. "She was saying that it might be nice to have something else besides school, something where she could perhaps make a few more friends. I think she was angling for ballet lessons."

Emma laughed, "I can arrange those too."

"I don't like the idea that some stranger is following one of my girls," Joyce admitted.

"There's no reason you should like it," Emma said. "I'll have someone try to find this man and follow him. If we can figure out who he is and why he's following Buffy, then we'll know how to deal with him."

"And in the meantime, Buffy will start her karate lessons," Joyce finished.

"In the meantime, all of you will start martial arts lessons," Emma corrected. "There are people who are quite eager to use parents or siblings as leverage."

Joyce nodded, and frowned again at her tablet. "I don't have to like that, but you're right. Now I need to try to get a little bit of work done for this. Tell me, what colors does polite society on this coast consider 'in' this season?"

One of the advantages of her wealth and influence was that when Emma Frost wanted something done, it usually happened in short order. When that something was as simple as karate lessons for a pair of girls in her school and one adult, it happened fast enough to make an outsider's head spin. Buffy's first lesson had been that afternoon, and Emma was waiting in her school office to hear how it had gone from Walter, who taught most of the unarmed combat classes.

"Emma, have I annoyed you lately?" Walter spoke from the doorway, a small frown on his face.

"No," Emma arched one eyebrow, looking at Walter. His muscles were mostly hidden under his loose fitting clothing, and a faint hint of sweat was present on his forehead. That was unusual, as was the frown he currently presented to her. "What makes you ask?"

"The new students for today. The Birmingham boy's near hopeless, stiff, clumsy and too arrogant to try to do better. I'd ask what you were thinking, except that I know how much money his parents have in various banks. The Keller twins are workable, but I get tired of people who can have conversations with each other in a look and a twist of the lips and forget that the rest of us aren't in the conversation with them. And that Summers girl… She's got a good grounding, but her form's sloppy. She also damn near broke my arm for me earlier. Fast, decent skills, and a lot stronger than she looks," Walter shook his head. "Emma, you promised me that you'd give me warning if you knew you were sending me another mutant with enhanced physical abilities."

"She what?" Emma blinked, surprised at Walter's words. "I wasn't aware of Buffy having any unusual abilities."

"Strength and speed both, Emma. The girl's a bit short, but other than that, she's built for fighting. Good balance, her speed's better than some of the students I've sent off to the Olympics, and more strength than a linebacker. At a guess, she's gotten into the habit of relying on strength instead of skill, and that's something I'd want to work on. I just wish I knew how she picked up her training and those habits," Walter sighed, and leaned against the wall.

"I can't tell you that right now, Walter," Emma frowned, wanting those same answers herself. How much of this had Buffy learned with her previous history of fights? Where had she learned her karate, sloppy form or otherwise? "For now, let's keep her abilities quiet."

"Fair enough, though I'd love to see what she could do on the competitive circuit with a bit of polish on her form," Walter had a wistful sparkle in his eyes.

"Thank you, Walter," Emma watched the man leave.

Joyce wasn't going to be happy about this. She wasn't particularly happy either. There were too many unanswered questions, among them where and when had Buffy learned to fight, and why was she sneaking out of the house at night to do it. Emma reached into her desk to pull out the bottle of Tylenol, feeling a new level of respect for Joyce. Parenting was harder than it looked.

End part 13.


	7. parts 14 and 15

Joyce sighed, letting the pen fall to the table beside the ledger. On one hand, this job was just the sort of thing that she enjoyed, managing an art gallery. There was even the benefit of her paycheck not depending on the sales of the showings, though a series of poor showings wouldn't be a good thing. Yes, the ledger was a mess from the previous accountants, and yes, she had a lot of responsibility as accountant and manager, but…

Her problems had nothing to do with work. She was worried about her daughters, hopeful and nervous about Emma, a bit self conscious, and still adjusting to living somewhere so different from LA. The news was even different here. In LA, the focus had been on record companies and the misdoings of countless Hollywood personalities. Here, it was the mutant issue, and various mutants and what they were supposedly doing. Buildings damaged, fires, thefts, disappearances… And the hate groups, and the debates about legislation and registration and gene testing.

"I thought you were in the process of fixing the ledgers, Joyce?" Misty's voice was calm.

"That's moving along, slowly, but I am making progress. I was just thinking about how different things are here, and a bit about my daughters," Joyce turned the chair, looking at the woman who owned the gallery. "Do you have any children, Misty?"

"I… My children don't live with me anymore," Misty's voice was soft. "My son hates me and anyone remotely like me. He sees me as an abomination to be locked away or destroyed. I had a foster daughter for a while, but…we fought about a few things. Unfortunately, we aren't on speaking terms any longer," Misty sighed, and leaned against the wall.

Joyce decided not to mention that Misty had taken on a slightly bluish cast as she spoke. Heaven knew the idea that she didn't have her children with her would be bad enough, but to have one think that she was an abomination… "Did your son take it that badly when you got involved with Irene?"

Misty looked up, her eyes having changed to a strange golden color. "He doesn't know about Irene. Lord only knows what he'd say if he knew about that. He can't stand mutants. He's one of the founding members of that bigoted hate group. He's told me to my face that he hates me, hates every mutant on Earth and thinks that the world would be a better place if we were all dead."

Joyce gasped, appalled that anyone would be able to say that to their own family. "That's horrible!"

"I can't change him. But instead, I am his worst nightmare. A liberal minded mutant activist," Misty's expression should have been a smile, but it looked far too full of pain. "Add in the lesbian aspect, and I manage to hit all his buttons at once."

"I'm sorry that you have family troubles," Joyce offered. "I know that won't help, but I am sorry."

"It's more than most people would say," Misty countered.

"Of course, I think I'm a bit jealous," Joyce managed a thin smile. "You don't look nearly old enough to have a grown son."

That actually caused Misty to laugh.

Joyce smiled, and a part of her thought that Misty was actually quite pretty. The blue wasn't very pronounced, though it seemed to come and go. Granted, Misty and Irene seemed to be happily married, but it wouldn't hurt to look and notice. Pretty as Misty might be, she wasn't what Joyce wanted, despite having dated a few redheads in college. No, Misty was pretty, but that was all.

She found herself preferring pale blonde hair now. Blonde hair and blue eyes, dressed in white and with a slightly sarcastic sense of humor. In short, Emma.

Oh dear.

That could change everything. If she was lucky, Emma would be interested in her that way, and perhaps they could get involved and things would be wonderful. Or maybe Emma was only interested in her as a friend, someone that she could be Emma with, instead of always being Ms. Frost. It hadn't seemed to bother Emma when she'd mentioned thinking Emma had been gorgeous in college, and Emma might have been flirting with her on a few occasions…

Well, she'd just have to see what happened. If it was nothing more than an unwanted crush, she would handle it, and it would, hopefully, fade. If Emma was interested, then… one thing at a time.

Shaking her head, she sighed. "Sorry, my mind wandered off again. I recently divorced, just moved out here, and I'm worried about my oldest daughter getting into fights."

"You certainly must have a lot on your mind," Misty agreed. "I hope you'll be at the opening for Irene. She's looking forward to meeting you."

Joyce considered her wardrobe and what sort of things she might have suitable for a gallery opening. Maybe a bit of shopping would be in order. "That should be nice. I'm a bit curious what sort of woman can keep you so happy."

"The best woman in all the world," Misty sighed, "Though I might be just a little biased."

"Maybe a little," Joyce agreed. "But if she makes you happy, then I'm glad for you both."

Joyce felt better as she returned to the ledger. She would see how things went with Emma. Dawn was adjusting nicely. Buffy would be starting her karate lessons today, so the maybe-stalker wouldn't be as much of a problem. And Emma would know exactly where to shop for some gallery opening dresses.

Everything would be… manageable, if not fine. As long as she took things once step at a time, and didn't let herself get overwhelmed by the sheer changes in her life.

End part 14.

Eventually, Joyce closed the ledgers, tucking them back into the desk drawer. She'd finished the display plan for Irene's showing, the scheduling, and the advertising plan. There was nothing else keeping her from going home for the night. Calling out a 'Good Night' towards Misty's office, Joyce left the building.

Emma had mentioned that Buffy's karate lessons would start today, and they were going to talk about them this evening. That could be a good lead in for a talk about Buffy's fights, and why she kept sneaking out. Though if Buffy seemed very upset, they might discuss the lurking man and if he'd been around. Hadn't Emma mentioned having someone look into the man following Buffy? Joyce frowned, deciding that yes, Emma had mentioned that, and wondering just how long it would take whoever Emma had put on that to come up with something and how much they would have.

At least Dawn wasn't having serious problems. She was getting along with the Stepford girls, and had a few other friends, though she kept saying that Billy was a horrible, rotten meanie. Emma had explained that Billy was one of the boys that Dawn had class with, the spoiled darling of a corporate executive with more money than sense. Her grades were good, she had friends, and she hadn't acted out with anything worse than a few temper tantrums, a messy room, and leaving the milk out on the counter, though that might have been an accident.

But Buffy? There were problems there. Problems that had started long before they moved here. Emma would help her, and at least she wouldn't have to fight to try to get her daughter help. Emma wouldn't suggest putting her in the care of 'a special facility for disturbed individuals' the way Hank had after Buffy had woke screaming from yet another nightmare. Nightmares that Buffy claimed not to remember the next morning.

Nightmares that her daughter lied about.

Joyce didn't know what horrible things haunted Buffy's sleep, or why her daughter would lie about them. She suspected that the nightmares tied in with the sneaking out, and the fighting, and the lies, but she didn't know if they were the cause or the result. Fighting, sneaking around, all those things could easily inspire nightmares. Or perhaps Buffy had started sneaking out in an effort not to dream. She didn't know. But locking her daughter in a mental institute wouldn't help.

Joyce walked down the hall, a cup of coffee in her hand. She didn't know enough to solve those problems. Maybe Emma would have something that would help, information about the stalker, or about nightmares.

"Joyce? I can hear you thinking to yourself out there." Emma opened the door to her study, bare toes peeking out from under a pair of white pants slipped over white lace. "Why don't you come in here, and we can talk about whatever's getting you twisted into mental pretzels."

Stepping into Emma's study, Joyce sighed. "I'm hoping that you can help untangle some of them. How did Buffy's first karate lesson go?"

"He asked if I'd slipped him another mutant and forgotten to mention her abilities," Emma frowned slightly, and wiggled her toes against the thick carpet. "Walter told me that Buffy's considerably faster and stronger than normal."

"How much more than normal? If she was just good, you'd be smiling and suggesting that I talk to her about competitive lessons, or pulling out information on tournaments," Joyce sipped at her coffee.

"I poached him from an Olympic candidate. He knows strength, he knows speed. Buffy definitely has abilities outside of the normal human limits," Emma looked over at Joyce, and asked, "Has she ever said anything about mutants as a whole? Or anything to suggest that she might be a mutant herself?"

"There was someone at Hemery that she described as a crazy orange guy who smelled funny. She's made a few statements about the news coverage scaring people," Joyce tried to remember, and shook her head. "She hasn't told me anything. But some of the stains I've found on her clothing… That might explain some about her nightmares, but she still hasn't even admitted to me that she remembers them."

"We'll have to talk to her," Emma pulled out a folder. "My people have found some things about her stalker. His name is Jeremy Claybourne, he's a forty seven year old British man, here on a work visa. He's been employed for the past five years at an antique store. No wife, no children, no serious girlfriend or boyfriend, no serious dating, though he does seem to have a few regular correspondents, several of whom he meets occasionally. They couldn't hear what was being discussed, though one of them works for something called the Council of Watchers. That's a British organization."

"What do they do? What do they watch?" A cold, angry knot was forming in Joyce's belly at the thought of these people watching her daughter, watching other girls like Buffy.

"I'm still waiting on that information," Emma dropped the folder on the glass topped table. "I'm planning to have a few words with him this weekend, and if need be, I'll take the answers out of his mind."

"Good," Joyce whispered, eyes following the folder.

"Anything else twisting your mind into pretzels, Joyce? Other than your daughter," Emma looked at her, blue eyes bright and shining.

"One," Her uncertainties fluttered back with a vengeance, and Joyce could feel her throat going dry and tight. "Something that I hope you can help me sort out."

"Anything for you, Joyce," Emma purred. "You should know that by now."

Joyce put the coffee down, relieved that her hand wasn't fluttering to match her insides. Glancing back at Emma, she whispered, "Anything, Em?"

"Anything at all," Emma repeated.

Joyce reached out, her fingers sliding through Emma's pale locks, curling around the back of her head as she settled onto the couch, one knee beside Emma's hip. Grabbing the spark of courage before it could tremble and sputter out, she pressed her lips to Emma's, tasting a hint of strawberry. Her other hand slid over Emma's side, the lace tickling her palm.

:Oh yes…: Emma's voice was a whisper that bypassed her ears and purred right into her mind. :I want to see if we can be more than just friends.:

Everything would be fine after all.

End part 15.


	8. parts 16 and 17

Joyce sighed at the old ledger, once again wanting to track down and beat Misty's last accountant. Technically this was a bit more than a gallery manager normally did, but there was no confusion as to why the previous bookkeeper had been removed from the position, and apparently the last gallery manager had been frightened off by too many mutant conflicts, and the one before that had been unable to cope with Misty and Irene's relationship… She still hadn't met Irene, but the woman was obviously a talented artist. Her work was vibrant, colorful, and managed that difficult feat of speaking to the emotions, something that seemed quite unconnected to color, composition or even talent.

At least Irene's showing was arranged. The paperwork was in order, the decorations planned, and she'd arranged for a bit of assistance with setting up the displays. The only thing left was talking to Irene or misty about prices. That in mind, she got out of the comfortable office chair and headed towards the room where Misty was probably located, though God only knew what she'd be doing in there, with her laptop and cell phone, as well as stacks of folders and papers that didn't seem to have any connection to the gallery. There was also a small refrigerator and a nice television.

The door was partially open, a signal that Misty wouldn't mind the interruption. On the screen, there was a news clip about some sort of conflict involving a group of mutants in dark outfits and what looked like strange purple robots. One of the mutants was blue, with a tail and an astounding resemblance to medieval depictions of the Devil, another was a woman with dark skin and long white hair, floating in the air with lightning crackling around her hands.

Misty sat behind her desk, looking bluer than ever, tears streaming from yellow eyes. She was focused on the screen, her expression one of shock and pain.

"Misty?" Joyce left the woman's name as a question, not quite soft enough to be a whisper, not loud enough for a normal conversation. It was obvious that something was terribly wrong, and she had no clue what to do about it, or even what it was. Her guess was that, like her own life, it was actually plenty of smaller things piling up and one last thing being just that tiny bit too much to bear and setting off tears.

"I thought he was dead…" the words dissolved into more sobbing, and Misty seemed to collapse into her chair.

Joyce moved over, rubbing her hand along Misty's back, hoping that she could help a little bit, at least enough that Misty was coherent. "You know one of the people on the television?"

Misty kept sobbing, her whole body shaking as she wept. Her skin was now almost the same dark blue as the very acrobatic blue mutant on the television. She was murmuring things in several languages, though Joyce could only make out a few words – baby, lost, son, and dead. Joyce kept rubbing circles on Misty's back, hoping to calm her down, uncertain what else she could do to help.

"You're Joyce. I've heard quite a few things about you," there was another woman in the doorway, a slender woman with light grey hair and dark sunglasses, garbed in a soft grey matching pants and jacket over a shirt of a dark blue that currently matched Misty's skin. "My name is Irene Adler."

"The circumstances aren't ideal, but it's good to meet you," Joyce commented, still rubbing circles on Misty's back. "There was a clip on the news about a group of mutants fighting some big purple robots, and she just…" Joyce shrugged, unable to come up with better words, "she just fell apart."

Irene moved closer, pulling a second chair over beside Misty's and wrapping her arms around the sobbing blue woman, "I'm here, love. You aren't alone, I'm here…"

"One of the mutants was a rather distinctive blue fellow, very acrobatic. Allowing for color distortion, I'd say about the same blue that she is right now," Joyce let Irene take over the little circles on Misty's back. "She's murmuring things, but I couldn't really make them out. Something about a baby, or maybe her baby… a son. And he was either dead or lost…"

"She had a son, a number of years ago. He was… visibly a mutant, from the very beginning," Irene spoke softly, still curled around Misty, rubbing her hand along Misty's spine. "There was a great many objections, and it seemed that he was killed."

"The blue mutant either looks enough like that baby that he might be her son, or at least reminded her of him?" Joyce asked, glancing over to the television which was now playing a commercial for Mercedes-Benz.

"Exactly," Irene nodded. "Joyce? Why don't you go home for the day, or at least just… come back tomorrow?"

"I suppose I can do that," Joyce looked at the two of them. At the bare minimum, this was an emotionally trying moment, and who knew just what Irene planned to help calm Misty down? She could certainly go away for a while.

Besides, she did have some other things to worry about. Her girls. Emma. And Buffy's stalker.

Joyce left the art gallery. There were plenty of things that she could deal with that would give Irene and Misty their privacy.

end part 16.

As she pulled the borrowed BMW into Emma's garage, Joyce tried to remember which of her multiple cars Emma had driven to her corporate offices today. It was a company day, not a school day, so she would be farther away, and less likely to have the time for a phone call. Had it been the Porsche? Joyce sighed, thinking that the fact that she couldn't remember which car her friend, her girlfriend, had taken was a sign that Emma had too much money. Her girlfriend… Joyce shook her head when she realized that she was just sitting in the garage with a sappy grin, and went inside the mansion.

Joyce made her way to Emma's home office, looking for a phone book. Since her life had been turned upside down in the divorce – not that she regretted ending things with Hank in the least – she had so many changes. Some of them she'd handled – a different home, a new school for the girls, a job. She still wanted, perhaps needed to change her will. As things were, her possessions were to go to Hank if he survived her, and to be held in equal shares for her children until they came of age if he didn't, with Hank getting custody if she died. It had sounded like a good idea while they were married, but not anymore. Damn if she'd let anything go to Hank just because they'd been married before he went off with some perky, big breasted secretary. Of course, just because a lawyer or law firm was in the phone book didn't mean they were a good choice for what she needed…

"What are you looking for, Joyce?"

Emma's voice startled her, and Joyce blinked, wondering just how long the book had been open to Lawyers, Rendal & Jenkins. "I need to update my will. I hadn't changed it since before Dawn was born, and it's a bit out of date, especially now…"

"Quite understandable," Emma murmured, and plucked the phone book out of Joyce's hands. "I left work early so that I wouldn't not so accidentally mind-wipe a few of my department heads. Why don't we have some ice cream and coffee? I can catch you up on what the teachers have to say about your girls…"

"Isn't that bribery?" Joyce smiled as she stood up, her arms sliding around Emma's waist. Leaning forward, she gave her a quick kiss before walking towards the kitchen. "Is there more strawberry, or just the chocolate almond?"

Emma followed behind, her bare feet quiet on the tiled floor. "There should be both. I pay my staff quite well to keep things running smoothly, and when someone has this much money, that means I shouldn't run out of ice cream."

In short order, the coffee was brewing, and they had bowls of ice cream on the counter.

Joyce took a bite of the strawberry, grinned before taking a spoonful of Emma's chocolate almond. "Now, what's this about my girls?"

"Dawn is getting along very well with the Stepfords, and doing very well in her classes. She keeps getting into arguments with Billy, the teacher is dismissing them as youthful squabbles and suspects that he might like her and have no better idea of how to express himself. Mindee, Sophie and Dawn are working together for a history project that sounds like it will become some sort of fashion show. She hasn't made any other close friends, but she gets along fairly well with a good number of other students. Dawn isn't the one we need to fret about," Emma took a bite of her ice cream, and sighed.

"Which means that Buffy is the one to worry about," Joyce translated. "Is she fighting at school? Or skipping classes?"

"She's present in her classes, though she has had a few problems paying attention in history and French. Mr. Douglas says that she seems to have problems paying attention during lectures, he used the term 'zoning out.' Of course, she hasn't had problems turning in her work, though her essays and reports could use better structure and more extensive vocabulary… Which is beside the point. I put her in martial arts lessons with Walter. He said that she's faster and stronger than a girl her size should be. He also said that she's good now."

"Which raises the questions of how and why she got so good at fighting, and who she's getting into fights with," Joyce sighed, poking at her ice cream. "What about her stalker?"

Emma took a breath before speaking, "I tracked him down after I left Frost Enterprises. Jeremy Claybourne is utterly convinced that there are demons and vampires stalking people in the shadows and the darkness, preying on humans. That the best way to deal with these monsters is to have a young woman fight and kill them. Not just any young woman, but some sort of mystically chosen warrior, someone called a Slayer. More troubling, this Slayer rarely lasts a year after being chosen, dies horribly at the claws and fangs of these demons, and he thinks Buffy is the current Slayer."

"Dear God…" Joyce had no idea what to say to something like that. "Buffy? Some sort of destined warrior?"

"Rather absurd sounding," Emma agreed. "More disturbing, I found a stash of pictures that he'd taken of her. Pictures of her on a morning jog, at the mall, at the school. He was planning to approach her about her destiny."

Joyce shuddered.

"Considering a few of the pictures, I was not amused. He's currently being examined by the staff of Bayview Cove, a facility for the mentally disturbed. He won't be able to keep from telling them all about the demons, and how he was stalking an under-aged girl to have her kill the monsters," Emma's smile reminded Joyce of a tiger, or perhaps a snow leopard would be a better comparison. "I'm not about to have strange men taking pictures of my students, especially not at the locker room door."

"Wouldn't he have had to be in the school grounds to get that one?" Joyce could feel herself growing hot at the idea of some pervert trying to look at Buffy. She was only fifteen. The idea of her being forced to fight monsters… to fight anything on the say-so of some middle aged British man…

"That's why I arranged for him to be committed. He won't be able to keep from telling everyone about stalking the girl, though he kept thinking of her as The Slayer. He won't be able to stop talking about the monsters, how they're hiding out there." A few moments of quiet, and then Emma sighed, "I just wish I hadn't lost my temper, I could have figured out how he got onto the school… He probably doesn't remember that anymore. Maybe not a few other things either."

"Perverted stalker. I hope they do something terrible to him. Electroshock therapy, or regular enemas… anything as long as it's awful," Joyce was still angry, and took another bite of the ice cream.

"They will, oh yes they will…" Emma shook her head.

"To blatantly change the subject, did you ever look into that absurd idea that the Stepford girls were your clones? Or long lost half siblings, or something?" Joyce stood up, pouring a cup of coffee for herself and one for Emma. "How would you go about checking that anyhow?"

Emma chuckled, though it lacked her usual intensity. "I suppose I could always start with having someone run a blood typing on one of them. If it's radically different from their parents, then something's odd. Or if it's incompatible with my own, then I can dismiss things as pure coincidence. But I can't just order a blood typing, let alone a full DNA workup on my students just because."

They let the question of the Stepford girls' blood and heritage go, considering it to be of minor importance. Buffy's stalker was much more troublesome, even if Emma had dealt with him. Her secrets and fighting were a bigger concern for them both. And Joyce still needed a good attorney to update her will.

End part 17.


	9. parts 18 and 19

Nigel Donovan was not a happy Watcher. Once upon a time, he'd been an assistant field Watcher in York, and had helped Senior Watcher Clarice Fitzgerald train the Slayer Emily Granger. He'd dealt with the more physical aspects of combat, leaving the more scholarly aspects to Madame Fitzgerald, a brilliant woman well into her seventies by the time Slayer Granger had been Called. After the death of Slayer Granger battling a pack of demon enhanced vampires intent on resurrecting the demon-sorcerer Mordred and destroying Britain, he had been brought to London, to assist with translations in the main headquarters. That had led to him becoming a major point of communications with Watchers out in the field. Now, almost forty years later, most of the American reports passed through his hands before going to the true powers of the Council.

He didn't have good news to pass on to his superiors. In fact, the news was quite bad. Starting from the earliest colonies, there were rumors that implied the presence of an Elder vampire, of the old Greek bloodlines, possibly even the Ancient Kakistos from the Boston area. It had been one of the things that the local field Watchers had been asked to investigate. There were also troubling reports of increased demonic activity. There had been a pack of Maerrocholiths that had slaughtered a group of hikers in Maine. A clan of Fyarls had lost their leader, and the resulting battles for dominance had spilled over, upsetting the balances of power through New Jersey, spoiling several shipments of merchandise used by the East Coast demon underground and starting several vicious conflicts among the demon Mafia. There had been trolls spotted in West Virginia, as well as reports of either some sort of demon turtle or spell warped beast devouring sheep. A Watcher in Brooklyn had reported a sighting that may have been William the Bloody, but had vanished before confirming or debunking that allegation. Something was causing alligators along the Alabama border to grow to remarkable size, and there had been an increased number of disappearances. Demonic car races through the Midwest. Kelpies being entered in the bloody American jumping events. Cursed cattle devouring farm hands in Texas. To top things off, the Watchers in California had lost the Slayer.

No, she wasn't dead. They'd have known if another had been Called. But the girl's parents had divorced, the mother had retained custody of the Slayer and a younger child, they'd gone to the Los Angeles Airport, and… And nobody had any clue where she was now. Not in Los Angeles. Not in Sunnydale, over the Hellmouth, as the Watchers had intended.

God alone knew where the Slayer was, because the Council didn't. And he was the one who had to tell the most senior members of the Council that they'd lost the Slayer. God help him.

********

Buffy arrived at the mansion after school, dropping her bag of books with a loud thump that once again made Joyce cringe for the floor and the spines of the poor textbooks inside. Her outfit had experienced a few adjustments since this morning, things that Joyce assumed were to fit some current teen fashion or other.

But she had more important things to worry about than teen fashions. "Buffy? Do you remember that you mentioned the man in the tweed suit?"

"The creepy stalker guy with zero fashion sense? Yeah," Buffy wrinkled her nose and dragged her fingers through her hair. "What about him?"

"I mentioned him to Emma, and she…" Joyce sighed, a half smile forming as she remembered that conversation. "Having scads of money means that while you and I said 'but why would someone be following you?' Emma hired a private investigator to find out. It sounded like the man was completely insane."

"Insane how? I'm sure they didn't just say 'wow, he's got horrible taste in clothes, he's a fruitcake', so what's the what?" Buffy moved towards one of the pale chairs, not looking directly at her mother.

"Apparently he was going on about monsters and demons," Joyce shook her head, once more chilled by the man's ravings. "Monsters that had to be fought by some sort of mystically chosen warrior."

"Chosen?" Buffy's voice was flat, and she jumped to her feet, shifting her weight as her hands twisted about each other. "Chosen how?"

"Some strange bit about one girl in all the world, chosen to fight alone against monsters and vampires." Joyce shook her head, and then saw the stricken look on Buffy's face.

"No… you weren't supposed to know. He said it would only cause problems…" the whisper dragged from Buffy's lips, her face paler than Joyce had ever seen her daughter.

She barely managed to catch Buffy when her daughter collapsed.

This wasn't at all what she'd expected. She'd expected revulsion at the idea of the man following and taking pictures, and she hadn't even mentioned that before Buffy's rather drastic reaction. She'd expected derision and perhaps fear at the talk of monsters and chosen warriors. The whole short lives and sudden painful death outraged her, and she could only expect that it would do something similar to Buffy. But she hadn't expected her daughter to collapse.

"I don't think this is the shock of someone hearing those ravings for the first time," Emma spoke from the doorway.

Joyce only shook her head, draping her daughter in the chair and for once thankful that there was so little of Buffy. "She said I wasn't supposed to know, and that someone had said it would cause problems… I just don't know who was saying those things or why."

"This will be a very interesting chat with your daughter," Emma mused.

End part 18.

"Let go, you don't have to carry me…" Buffy's words were full of the same stubborn independence that her daughter showed so much of the time, but they were much softer than normal.

Tucking Buffy into the chair and tucking an afghan around her, Joyce decided that it was more of a token protest than any serious claim to strength. Maybe Buffy had fainted, maybe she'd just gone limp from the shock, it didn't make that much of a difference. "Who told you that I didn't need to know, and just what was supposed to be kept from me?"

"Mom…" Buffy shook her head, and sighed, shoulders drooping and eyes focusing somewhere between her left knee and the arm of the chair. "There's nothing you can do about it, so just… don't worry."

"That isn't going to work, young lady." Joyce gave a semi-glare towards her daughter. "You look horribly upset, and if someone's trying to take pictures of you in the school locker rooms, you had best believe that I'm going to worry about it!"

"Both of us," Emma insisted. "Granted, I'm not your mother, but it is my school, and nobody is supposed to be taking pictures near the locker rooms. The only time at all involved a police investigation and quite a few forms being filled out, as well as the person being photographed being aware that pictures were taken. Someone sneaking pictures when you don't know is quite a separate matter. Some of the relevant terms are stalking, sexual harassment, and underage."

"Eeww," Buffy made a face, and shuddered. "It's not supposed to be like that."

Joyce just raised an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest. Trying to put as much suspicion and doubt into the word as she could, she said "Really?"

"No, it's supposed to be… Wait, what do you mean, the locker room? What about the beach? Does that mean my room here too?" Buffy's expression was horrified. Almost as horrified as Joyce had felt.

"Do you really want an answer to that, Buffy?" Emma moved closer, moving to stand beside Joyce.

"There really are monsters out there. Demons and vampires. Probably even magic," Buffy shook her head, "And they're nasty. Not spiffy and sexy like Anne Rice wrote about, but evil and nasty and torture you before killing you and kick puppies sort of evil."

"Are you sure that you aren't seeing mutants and assuming a darker explanation?" Emma's words were low, urgent and filled with tension.

"I've seen the vampires claw their way out of their graves. That's not mixing up a mutant. Beyond that…" Buffy shrugged, "If it looks like they're trying to eat someone, I don't ask, I just assume that they're trouble."

"Why you?" Joyce asked, fighting the urge to send Buffy far away, somewhere that would have no vampires, no demons, and maybe no teenage boys while she was at it… "Why not train soldiers or hunters to deal with these monsters? Why send a California cheerleader out to find demons?"

"Because destiny sucks."

"No. You can't go fight monsters," Joyce shook her head, making an effort not to scream or wail. "You're only fifteen, you aren't old enough. Tell them to find someone else. Someone with training, someone who has weapons…"

"Mom, it doesn't work like that. Do you think I wanted this?" Buffy was shaking her head.

"If they have the resources to follow you like this, why don't they fight the vampires themselves?" Emma had a tiny frown, one that didn't pull at her forehead.

"They have resources, they can find another way to fight demons. A way that doesn't include you," Joyce blinked, her vision blurring as she looked at her daughter. "I've seen the bloodstains on your clothing, seen you hiding bruises. It's not safe for you and you can't keep doing it."

"I don't want to do this! I hate this, and if there was any way to give it up, I would!" Buffy wasn't quite shouting. "I don't want to fight monsters, I don't want creepy guys following me. I want to worry about clothes and parties and finding a decent guy! I want to watch movies and complain about horribly mean teachers. I want to be able to get a pair of Jimmy Choo heels without worrying that I'll ruin them with demon slime."

"Then stop," Emma countered.

"I can't stop!" Buffy was shouting now, tears streaming down her face. "Someone else was the Slayer and she _died_ and now it's my job! The only way to stop being the Slayer is to die! I don't want to die, and now it's gonna happen soon and it's gonna be something horrible and painful! There's no way out of this!"

Joyce fought for breath as Buffy stomped out of the room, pushing past them both. She could hear her tiny daughter stomping up the stairs, hear the door slamming to her bedroom.

All Joyce could do was cry, leaning against Emma. That hadn't gone at all the way she wanted. She desperately hoped that her daughter was wrong, that those strange stalker people had lied about there being no way to quit this Slayer thing. Because she didn't want her daughter to die either.

End part 19.


	10. parts 20 and 21

"Joyce, do you think we can talk about that now, or do you need to cry a bit longer?" Emma's voice was gentle, her hand still rubbing over Joyce's back.

"She was so upset, Emma. Even teenagers don't get that upset that quickly," Joyce sniffled a little, wiping at her eyes. "This had to have started before the divorce. Well before."

"It would explain the fighting and the sneaking out, especially if someone convinced her that you shouldn't know," Emma murmured.

"Nobody knew where we were moving when we left LA. Whoever was talking to her about this back there couldn't have contacted that stalker. Crazy guys stalking girls and babbling about destiny is sick, but believable. Two crazy guys with the exact same delusion fixating on the same girl on opposite sides of the country isn't." The words hurt as Joyce spoke, part of her wanting to scream that it wasn't fair, wasn't right and to snatch her baby girl back and wrap her up somewhere safe from all this madness and danger.

"It does suggest a larger organization than solitary individuals. This might tie in to that Council of Watchers that he was mentioning. Some sort of larger network of communications and information," Emma suggested.

"But why my daughter? Why Buffy? And why, if they think she has to go out and fight, why aren't they helping her? Why does my daughter sound like she thinks she's going to die when she isn't even sixteen yet?" Joyce didn't quite wail, but she wasn't anywhere near being calm.

"I don't know why Buffy, and I don't know why they haven't been helping," Emma cupped her hand around Joyce's cheek. "What I do know is this – Buffy won't be facing this alone anymore. She has us to try to keep her safer, to make certain she has all the training and equipment that she needs. They won't be so much as talking to her unless they play by our rules, which means no stalking teenagers, no photographs near the locker rooms, and no sending her out alone while they sit back and spy on her."

"You know that they won't like that, Em. If they've been doing whatever they want for God only knows how long, they won't like suddenly being held accountable," She gave a trembling smile, and then added, "It should be good for them. Unless they decide to do something awful to get us out of their way."

"Anyone working with children or minds is supposed to be responsible and accountable, it's why teachers and therapists need to be trained and certified. There's no good reason for them to be spying on Buffy like that, even if she does have some sort of destiny. If acting like decent people and giving Buffy a little basic respect is too much for them, well…" Emma shook her head, the glint in her eyes, the slight lowering of her brows, and the curve of her lips giving her features an almost cruel cast. "There are plenty of asylums in the area, and there are worse things than forcing someone to start telling their secrets to people in uniforms."

Ordinarily, Joyce wouldn't have approved of the idea of Emma using her abilities to ruin someone's life. It felt too similar to the way that Astrid had played with her own life, deciding to pair her off with Hank no matter how many times he cheated, no matter what lies he spun. But they weren't asking for anything unreasonable – they wanted Buffy to have a reasonable amount of privacy, they wanted her to have help if she was in danger, they wanted her to be treated like a person and not a weapon. Any decent person should be willing to do all those things without any threats. And if they weren't decent people… if they weren't decent people, then the world might be better off if they weren't roaming the streets.

* * * ****

Douglas Wiltshire fought to keep himself from trembling as he walked into the office of Quentin Travers, Head of the Council of Watchers. The office of the man who held the safety of the entire world in his hand, the man who directed the efforts of the Watchers to prevent the hordes of demons lurking in the shadows seeking to destroy the world, to bring about the apocalypse.

Part of him thought that Mr. Travers didn't look like someone who held the fate of the world in his hands. He rather looked like a college professor, or perhaps a barrister practicing among the middle class. His hair was beginning to grey, and while his suit was well tailored, it was cut more for comfort than fashion, and from fabrics that wore well. Travers' eyes possessed a keen intelligence and he was well known to be almost aware of what was going on as soon as it occurred. He was also known for having quite a temper.

"Sir? I have some of the field Watchers reports for you… from the States," Wiltshire held out the stack of thin manila folders, the collected summaries of the last few months of reports from American field Watchers. The full reports were being transcribed into the Archives by others, who did not carry the same pressures as Mr. Travers himself.

Accepting the stacked folders with a frown, Mr. Travers looked at him. "What is the news from the Hellmouth? Has the Slayer done anything of note?"

Wiltshire swallowed hard, dreading what he would have to say. "Sir, the Slayer…. She isn't on the Hellmouth."

For a moment, there was an awful silence in which Douglas Wiltshire was certain he could hear the rapid beating of his heart. "The field Watchers lost her at the Los Angeles airport. We don't know where she is now, but it isn't Sunnydale California, over the Hellmouth."

"The Slayer… isn't over the Hellmouth?" The words were slow, as if Mr. Travers wanted to make certain each one fit precisely with the one before it. "I was promised that her departure from Los Angeles was assured, and that there would be nowhere else that the mother could go except Sunnydale. No other town where she would be able to move her troublesome daughter. That all of the schools in the area within the mother's budget had been contacted about the juvenile delinquent. That her records would be sufficiently _unflattering_ to keep her under observation. I was assured that _everything_ had been handled."

Never before had Wiltshire been so glad that he had no responsibilities in the field. That he had no authority to make any decisions affecting the field. In short – however things had gone so badly awry, it hadn't been his fault. "It appears that someone was mistaken, sir."

"Mistaken?" Travers' voice was a low growl.

"Either a miscalculation has been made and the Slayer's mother found another option besides Sunnydale, or the information provided the Field Watchers to use in identifying her after arriving in Sunnydale was insufficient and they missed her. Those are the only two possibilities, sir," Wiltshire tried not to babble, but his words sped up, almost squeaking at the end. "If she is in Sunnydale, then the Watchers haven't identified her. If the California Watchers are correct and she isn't in Sunnydale, then someone was mistaken about there being no other options available to them."

Travers growled, and smacked the folders against his desk. "Get out."

Bolting from the office, Wiltshire found himself praying that Mr. Travers remembered that he had no authority over anything.

End part 20

Emma held Joyce for a while longer before sending her off to take a long shower, or perhaps a nice soak in a hot bath to relax. She'd promised Joyce that she would do whatever was necessary to keep Buffy safer through this mess, to ensure that Buffy didn't need to go out half trained and unprotected, armed only with a pointy stick to fight monsters. More importantly, Joyce believed her.

It was the truth, after all. While she hadn't found Buffy to be precisely likeable – the girl was fifteen, an indifferent student, and terribly worried about being popular – that was a far cry from wishing harm on the girl. But Buffy was important to Joyce, and she disliked the idea of anyone sending out a teenager to fight monsters. Even worse would be sending out a girl without making all possible efforts to help her.

Those efforts would start with having a talk with Buffy. While she certainly had good reasons to be upset, Emma had no intentions of letting her stew in that unhappy, tangled frustration, fear and despair. Stomping and slamming doors wasn't terribly ladylike either, and more importantly, it wouldn't get her anything in this situation. The only excuse for unladylike behavior in a woman or girl would be if it was more effective than well mannered behavior.

Emma walked up the stairs and down the hall to the room that Buffy had chosen as a bedroom. The door wasn't quite closed, though it may well have bounced when Buffy tried to slam it. Choosing to interpret the fact that Buffy hadn't made sure the door was closed as sufficient invitation, she pushed the door open and walked inside.

Joyce had clearly been understating when she'd mentioned Buffy not taking good care of her shoes. They were scattered about the closet, spilling over the floor. Clothing had been tossed in and around the laundry hamper. Over all, the room was a mess.

Almost as much of a mess as Buffy's emotions. There were tangled fragmented images of horrible monsters, of people with fangs and heavy eyebrows fighting, biting people. Memories of blows, of injuries. A chaotic mass of fear, for Buffy's own safety and fear of what some of those monsters might do to her family if they found them. Some of them possibly willing to do far worse than killing.

"You realize that this won't help," Emma tried to keep her voice calm. "Especially not abusing your shoes like that."

"Like the shoes will keep me from getting killed," Buffy had collapsed face down on her bed, the covers muffling her words just a bit.

"Why bother having nice clothes and shoes if you don't take care of them?" Emma moved closer, sitting on the bed near Buffy. "We need to talk, Buffy."

"I can pick up the shoes later," Buffy mumbled.

"While that is a good idea, that isn't what I meant," Emma reached out, resting one hand on Buffy's shoulder. "We need to talk about what that man was rambling about. Demons. Vampires. His idea that you're something called a Slayer."

Buffy twisted away and upwards, her back against the wall and facing Emma, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "Money can't make this better."

"No and yes, Buffy. Money can't make the monsters go away, and it can't change destiny, but there are ways that it can help. These people have told you that you're a Slayer. We'll talk about what makes them so certain of this later. Have they offered you any training? Weapons? Assistance fighting these monsters?" Emma waited for Buffy to answer.

Buffy sniffled, her mind flashing through a series of images of an older man, dressed in battered clothing, teaching her to use a sword, demonstrating a martial arts movement. The same man speaking of the dangers if the monsters ever learned who her family were and where to find them. That man – Merrick – saying that if he hadn't been a Watcher, he might have become a decent cobbler. That man, fighting fanged thugs. A man dressed like the cover of a French Historical romance novel, demanding to know "Where is the Slayer" before he ripped the man's throat out.

"Only one man tried to help you at all. None of the ones here. Nobody after Merrick's death. Nobody before that," Emma shook her head, refraining from swearing out loud.

"How…" Buffy struggled to find the words to ask how Emma knew, how she could have that information. To ask what else she knew.

"I'm a telepath. I'm not digging into your mind – I promised Joyce that I wouldn't. But you were thinking very loudly. I've known that you were hiding something, but I didn't pry for details. This makes me wish that I had," Emma sighed.

"So you think you can help me?" Buffy's hands were clenched around the blanket as she felt hope and fear.

"Walter will continue giving you martial arts lessons, he mentioned that your form was a bit sloppy. He can teach you several different styles as well as providing an excellent training area. I can arrange for someone to give you lessons with swords, perhaps archery as well. Purchasing weapons is a simple matter, and perhaps some sort of armor might be a good idea as well. I'm certain that something flexible enough not to impede your movements as well as subtle enough not to give you away could be arranged. I can easily afford good quality blades, and to replace them as often as you need," Emma caught Buffy's eyes. "I can also make certain that they don't take you away."

"Dad tried to have me committed," Buffy's voice was soft, but the flickering images, an empty room without sharp corners, a glass window and people peering in at her, hearing her mom insisting that she was just having some bad nightmares while her father insisted that there was something deeper, some sort of problem…

Emma shuddered, and tried to force back her own ugly memories. "I know that you aren't making this up. I know that you've seen horrible things. The part that's crazy is the fact that a group of people won't tell you anything other than 'monsters are real, go kill them until they kill you', and they won't help. I can buy you training and equipment. I can try to find allies and backup."

"But I'm still the Slayer,' Buffy whispered.

"As I said, we'll talk later about why you think that is, and if they ever want to speak to you again, they'll talk to us about this as well. They'll treat you like a real person, with respect to your privacy, and your rights." Emma decided not to tell Buffy about what would happen if these Watchers refused.

"Okay," Buffy gave a small smile. She didn't feel like she quite believed in Emma yet, but she wanted to believe in her. Buffy wanted someone to be on her side in this whole nightmare mess so badly that Emma could taste it.

"If they don't want to play by my rules, then they should have been preparing you better from the start," Emma smirked.

"You play by rules?" Buffy asked.

"Just a few," Emma gave a small smile, before adding, "But mostly I play to win."

"I'd like to be on the winning side," Buffy admitted.

End part 21.


	11. parts 22 and 23

Joyce had wept into the afghan for awhile after Emma had gone upstairs after Buffy. The whole mess was just so awful, and it kept getting worse. First, Buffy had been sneaking out and getting into fights, lying about where she'd been and what she'd been doing, leaving her suspicious of wild boys, careless sex, and the chance of either becoming a grandmother years too soon or her daughter trying to arrange an abortion. Then Hank had wanted to put her in a mental institution. She'd hoped that moving across the country, away from all the bad influences and wild boys would help, but Buffy had started sneaking out again. Except that it wasn't quite the way Joyce had thought. Instead of friends being bad influences, there were obsessive stalkers babbling about demons and destiny. Her daughter was fighting, fighting what she was convinced were demons and vampires, and just as convinced that these fights would be the death of her. What could she do in this mess?

Drawing in a ragged breath, Joyce reminded herself that she wasn't alone. She had Emma, and Emma was going to help. She'd already promised to help deal with the British stalker, and however many more stalkers like him were out there, ready and eager to violate Buffy's privacy and send her to her doom. She'd promised to arrange lessons in how to fight, lessons for all three of them.

Reminded of just how upset her eldest had been, Joyce wiped at her eyes and tried to find Emma. Emma would know if Buffy was ready to talk, or if she still needed some time to herself. More productive, Emma might have a few other useful ideas that could help Buffy, and there was no reason not to ask her about those ideas.

There was a light in Emma's home office, her friend sitting in front of a computer that had a dark background and a pair of gleaming silver swords. Wondering just what Emma had been doing, Joyce asked, "Has she calmed down any?"

"She's mostly asleep, I'd suggest letting her sleep if she can manage it. Talk to her in the morning, let her stay home if she wants. I've ordered a batch of swords and axes that she'll be able to use if she does keep up her demon slaying. I'll be able to talk to Walter tomorrow about giving her some lessons with them, and I'll be able to talk to someone else about some hard to notice armor for her to wear. That will not only be easier on her wardrobe but help keep her safer," Emma shook her head. "You've been through a lot already, Joyce. The last thing you need is for one of your girls to end up in a hospital or worse because of something as simple as not wearing armor."

"What do we do about these Watchers? I know you said you handled the one who's been following her. But if there's a lot of them, and they are convinced that Buffy's their chosen sacrifice, then they'll send someone else. I'd rather not have any of us get in trouble for whatever you did," Joyce reached out, her hand resting on Emma's shoulder.

"You're absolutely right that they'll send someone else to watch their destined warrior. What we do next will depend on what sort of person they send. I'm willing to work with someone if they'll treat Buffy and us properly, giving Buffy some basic respect, privacy, and crediting her with feelings, concerns, and goals. And us as having more rights to Buffy and determining her future than they do. They won't like what happens if they won't do that for her… for us," Emma shook her head, and leaned back, her hand reaching up to rest over Joyce's arm.

"As much as I'd love for them to behave in a sensible and respectful manner, I don't think I'm optimistic enough not to want plans for people behaving badly," Joyce sighed, leaning forward so that her weight was against Emma's chair, her hand resting on Emma's arm. Fragments of mystery and crime novels and countless film noir flickered through her mind, giving the ideas of offers she couldn't refuse, and people being threatened or killed to try to force Buffy into line with someone else's wishes. Half shaped images of reputations ruined and businesses burned to the ground in mysterious arson. "And we both know that some people take things to ugly extremes."

"I do know, Joyce. I have a very good idea just how ugly things can get," Emma paused, her eyes fixed on the computer screen. "I'm prepared to be just as vicious as they are, but I'll try not to be taking the first shot this time."

Part of Joyce wanted to ask what Emma meant by 'this time' while another part insisted that she was probably far happier not knowing. Considering what Emma had admitted to doing to Astrid – not that the meddling woman hadn't deserved it, but it had still been quite ruthless. Emma had also admitted to more or less breaking the mind of Buffy's stalker… who had been taking pictures of Buffy near the locker room, so he deserved it as well. "Should I assume that you have measures in place for your company, your school, and the mansion?"

"Of course I do, darling. I think I'd like to swing by the art gallery that you've been working at, just to make sure. If Ms. Adler is who I think she is, then attempting to cause her problems would be a dreadfully poor choice for these Watchers. If she isn't, then I can arrange something for her gallery."

Joyce frowned, thinking about what Emma had just said and a few of the little things that she'd seen from Misty. "She admitted to being a mutant, and divorced. I also told her that I was quite jealous that she had a grown son and could still pass for someone who's only in her mid twenties."

"She admitted to being a mutant?" Emma paused, and after a few moments asked in a soft voice, "What was the name of the artist you were arranging a showing for this time?"

"Her wife, a woman named Irene Adler." Joyce gave a small smile, remembering the way they had seemed so smitten with each other, the way Misty's eyes had lit up when she'd seen Irene, the smile when she'd talked about her wife, who she thought was the most wonderful woman in the world.

"Was that television glare, or does Misty have a bluish cast to her skin?" Emma mused.

"Not normally, though she did pick one up when she got upset at that one news clip. It went away again when she calmed down… I'm not sure she realized that I saw that," Joyce shook her head, and then admitted, "She's quite pretty, though I do find myself preferring one particular blonde nowadays."

Emma snickered, shook her head, and snickered again, "I almost hope they do try to bother her and her gallery!"

"Shall I leave you in here, snickering and plotting? I think I'll go make sure Dawn's working on her homework, and we have dinner at six. I was planning to take a shower after I talk to Dawn…" Joyce straightened up, her hand sliding up over Emma's arm and eventually away. She gave a tiny smirk, and pictured herself in the luxurious shower, warm water cascading over her body, a loofah full of scented bubbles sliding over her skin. Feeling a bit nervous, she offered, "Maybe you could join me with that?"

Joyce did pause in the doorway, glancing back at Emma. Seeing that Emma was sitting there, her reflection in the monitor looking rather stunned, Joyce smiled. If she was lucky, that was a pleasantly surprised stunned look. Maybe even a pleasantly surprising and splendid idea look.

End part 22.

Joyce tried not to blush as she walked into the dining room, a half step behind Emma. Her hair was still damp, and was soaking into the back of her blouse, with a few tendrils wrapping around her neck. They were late, and she could see Dawn and Buffy both sitting at the table.

"We were starting to wonder if you got lost in this big house of Emma's," Buffy quipped, and then frowned. "Why is your hair wet?"

"No, I didn't get lost," Joyce insisted, feeling her face grow warm. Maybe Dawn was a bit young to hear about just what had caused the delay… Now how to distract the girls from wondering what she had done to be late that also involved water and Emma? No, not the whole mess about Buffy, fighting monsters, and crazy stalkers. "Dawn, did you still want ballet lessons?"

With her head nodding so much that Joyce was reminded of a bobble head doll, Dawn grinned, "Of course I still want ballet lessons! And Mrs. Stepford suggested that I might want to take some riding lessons, she said there was a good stable that she could recommend for me."

"I can arrange ballet lessons, and you'll be starting some self defense lessons as well," Emma commented. "One of the instructors at the school will be working with Buffy on karate lessons, though if you're interested in ballet we might want to find a different style for you to study. Savate or Muay Thai, perhaps. Why don't we see how you adjust to those lessons before we add horseback riding to the mix?"

"Why am I going to be learning martial arts? I don't get into trouble," Dawn asked, glancing at Buffy when she mentioned trouble.

"It has more to do with the fact that you're staying here with me than any belief that you deliberately seek out trouble. Joyce and I would rather avoid having someone kidnap you to provide leverage to force us to act in accordance to their wishes," Emma countered.

"But.." Dawn linked, and then stopped, taking a sip of water as she frowned. "Is this because you have a bazillion dollars? And a school? And a company?"

"A good part of it," Emma gave a brittle smile. "We already had someone stalking Buffy. He had photographs taken of her about town."

Buffy shuddered, and mumbled something that Joyce didn't catch.

"Buffy and I will also be taking lessons, Dawn. It isn't just you. If we're lucky, the lessons just keep us in shape and help you work on your coordination. I could be quite happy with nobody attempting to kidnap me or either one of you girls," she tried to smile, doubting it looked any more natural than Emma's.

"Someone tried to grab Buffy? Who, why?" Dawn looked up, her blue eyes going wide.

"We didn't get a chance to question him. Apparently something set him off, and he went to a police officer and started babbling about stalking a girl. When the officer followed him back to his apartment, there were… a rather large number of pictures of Buffy. They have him in a facility for the mentally disturbed while their attorneys try to figure out the next step," Emma's voice was full of dismay and disapproval.

Dawn began, "Well then, if they have the guy in custody…"

"There will be another one, and another. There will always be someone who wants to convince you to do something. Some of them will try logic and reason; some will try emotional appeals and attempt to gain your pity. Others will offer money, political favors, or various recreational aids. Still others will try kidnapping, threats and blackmail."

"Not everyone asking for a bit of assistance is someone dreadful," Joyce glanced at Emma, remembering their own first meeting. She'd been newly arrived at the college campus and had asked the attractive blond if she could help her figure out where Kenmore Hall was, so she could attend her orientation meeting.

Emma smiled, and conceded, "True, you never asked for anything more dreadful than class notes or a second copy of term paper rubrics."

"Does this mean I have to tell Mindee and Sophie that I can't stay Friday? They asked if I could sleep over, and maybe have ice cream and paint toenails..." Dawn was frowning, looking from Joyce to Emma and back to Joyce.

"I don't think that's quite what Emma was meaning, Dawn. I suppose you can sleep over with the Stepford girls, if you do well on that test you have tomorrow. But we mean it about the lessons, you will be taking some sort of self defense," Joyce mused. Part of her wondered if these Watchers might try to grab Dawn to use as leverage to gain control of Buffy… if they would try to set another stalker after Buffy… if they would use a smarter strategy next time.

They talked about book reports and the American Revolution over a delightful chicken dinner, and Joyce found herself lingering over the desert, dainty strawberry tarts with a white chocolate froth. Dawn slipped away first, smiling as she mentioned a paper with Sophie and then muttering about spiders, webs, and vocabulary words.

Emma leaned back in her chair, a tart sitting untouched on a plate in front of her. She was watching Buffy, with an expression that was almost a smile.

Meanwhile, Buffy was glaring at Emma, occasionally glancing at her mother with an expression that was more bewildered than anything else before going back to a firm glare directed at Emma.

Joyce didn't understand why Buffy would be glaring at Emma now. She'd been distraught about the Watchers and the Slaying, distraught and terrified. Emma's talk with her had gone alright, leaving Buffy hopeful and willing to hear about plans for help. Where had that angry glare come from?

"What are you doing with my mom?" the words were clipped out between clenched teeth as Buffy continued to glare.

Joyce winced, part of her wanting to know how Buffy had figured it out, another part insisting that the pair of them arriving late for dinner and both damp and smelling like strawberry body wash had to be a big clue, and another part determined not to share any details with her daughter.

"Being rude will not make things easier for you, Buffy," Emma's voice was calm, and she still had that amused smirk.

"Trying to schmooze my mother will not help you with… whatever. It especially won't help with stuffy British guys babbling about destiny and monsters, because I don't think they'll care." Buffy's fists were resting on the table.

Emma chuckled, "I assure you that what is going on between Joyce and myself has nothing to do with those delusional stalkers, and it has nothing to do with the abilities that you have, which may or may not tie in to this Slayer idea that the Watchers have been nattering about."

"Then I'm supposed to believe that this is all…." Buffy's words stopped, her lips moving as she struggled to find the right words.

"What is going on between Emma and I is the result of me deciding that it's finally time to try to be happy. I didn't have the courage to try when we were in college; now I do," Joyce tried not to glare at Buffy. Tried not to reveal the way it hurt to hear her daughter talk like that, as if the only reason Emma might do anything with her would be part of a plot…

"You were happy with Dad." Buffy crossed her arms over her chest, and frowned at her mother.

"No I wasn't. Hank didn't listen to me, he never supported my hopes and plans. He wanted me to be there, supporting his career and minding the house," Joyce closed her eyes, refusing to tell Buffy how Hank had been so disappointed that they hadn't had a son, that there wouldn't be a Hank Summers Junior… No child deserved to hear that they disappointed their parents by the very nature of what they were.

"So you divorced him and got a girlfriend? He spent years supporting you and this is what happens?" Buffy shook her head, eyes damp, "I knew it was because of me… because of the fights. Because I'm the Slayer."

"Hank Summers kept us in a nice house because he wanted a nice house. He wanted the expensive furnishings and the fancy cars, it would be bad for his reputation at work if his wife drove a beat up Volkswagon. He did everything he could to make my career more difficult than it had to be. And your father was never faithful to me," Joyce could feel her nails digging into her palms, and realized just how tightly she had clenched her hands.

"Are you saying that Dad cheated on you?" Buffy's jaw dropped, and her eyes were very wide.

"I caught him twice before you were born. Three secretaries left the company to hide or cover up their relationships with him. I think he paid another of his former girlfriends to have an abortion, or perhaps to give up the child for adoption. He may have had an affair with Cora," Joyce sighed, feeling angry once more that she had been forced to stay with someone who could do all of that. Had been forced to swallow his lies and pitiful excuses.

"Cora?" Buffy blinked in confusion.

"The woman in the pink house, with the Persian cats, the fake nails, and insisting that everyone call her Cassandra?" Joyce arched one eyebrow at her daughter. "The one that your friends on the cheerleading squad called that skeezy pink woman with the ugly cats?"

"Uggh!"

"I personally hope that she was just making it up, as she did with more than a few of her stories," Joyce admitted.

"Then why did you marry him in the first place?" Buffy shook her head.

"Astrid wanted Joyce out of the way, and so she meddled with your mothers mind to make her accept all of Hank's false apologies, his pathetic excuses, the lame lies about why he missed their dates or had someone else's lipstick on his collar. In Astrid's opinion, Joyce was too close to me, had too much influence over what I did… and she didn't want anyone else to be able to have power over me. She took actions to remove Joyce from my life in such a way that no authorities would suspect anyone had encouraged things. Joyce wasn't the only one that Astrid decided to remove," Emma sighed, and shook her head before muttering, "Damned woman let having power go to her head. She thought that because she could do things that not everybody could, that she had the right to do whatever she wanted and that nobody could stop her."

"Do things?" Buffy whispered.

"She was another telepath. She could literally change the way you saw the world, change your opinions, push you into doing things that she wanted… and she thought that I would be the perfect assistant for her goals."

"Is she still out there?" Buffy asked. "And… does that mean that she wanted you away from Mom?"

"She wanted Joyce to leave me alone, wanted all of my friends to leave me alone. Astrid's goal was for me to have nobody to turn to except for her. Astrid has been dealt with, and she won't cause anybody problems anymore," Emma had that cold smile again. "I don't intend to be anyone's minion."

"Right… no minion Frost." Buffy shook her head, and then frowned, looking towards her mother. "So does this mean… are you… Mom? Are you…"

"Emma and I are… I suppose you could say that we're dating." Joyce took a bite of the strawberry tart, and smiled towards Emma. "That should be enough for now."

"Right… I think that's about all my brain can take now…" Buffy stood up and walked out of the dining room, shaking her head and muttering things that Joyce couldn't hear.

"Give her time. The idea that you're dating anyone will take a while for her to accept,' Emma reached over, resting her hand on Joyce's arm. "Even if that's the only thing we said that she focuses on, it'll take a while."

"I know, Em. It's just…" Joyce sighed, and took another bite of the tart. She wasn't certain that Buffy would accept the idea of her dating Emma. Not only not her father, not even a man. Buffy could be rather conservative at times. And she wasn't at all certain how Dawn would take it… "Does life ever get easier?"

"I doubt it."

End part 23.


	12. parts 24 and 25

The next morning, Joyce went to check on Buffy. Last night had been a bit more emotional than she would have preferred, and it would be nice to know how Buffy was handling things.

Standing at the closed door, she tapped the wood and called, "Buffy? Are you awake?"

"If I say no, can I stay in bed and not go to school?"

Joyce sighed, not surprised by Buffy's comment. "You forget, I know how you sound when you're really asleep. It isn't coherent."

"Nnnggh." There was a soft noise, and a mild thud. "You might as well come inside."

"I'm not going to make you go to school today if you don't feel up to it," Joyce opened the door. Her daughter was sitting at the head of the bed, the raspberry pink comforter wrapped around her making her look so very young and vulnerable. She didn't look old enough to know that there were monsters, let alone to be sent out to fight them.

"School bites," Buffy frowned, "Well, not like vampires. But it isn't any fun, and I'd rather stay home."

"I'll call you in sick today. Last night was probably a lot for you to take in. I know how much you were always Hank's little princess." Joyce shook her head, walking across the floor and wincing at the scattering of shoes and boots falling out of the closet. She settled on the edge of the bed, close enough that she could touch Buffy, but leaving that choice to her daughter.

"I know that Emma told you we don't intend to leave you on your own to deal with all of this. With the Watchers, with the monsters. But Buffy…" Joyce paused, considering how to phrase her problem. "We need more information. Do you think that you could make a list of everything you know about these people? Maybe exactly how they concluded that you were the Chosen One, and what they look for? What you know about the monsters and how to kill them. We can't help you if we don't have the information."

"Nothing about grammar, or sentence fragments? I don't have to put in citations and the right format of references?" Buffy sounded almost hopeful.

"We don't need MLA citations for the basics of these Watchers or how to fight demons," Joyce shook her head. If this weren't so serious, if it wasn't a matter of her daughter's future and her potential death, she'd be snickering at the idea of citations for demon hunting.

"Okay," Buffy managed a little smile. The smile then collapsed and she didn't quite wail, "Why her?"

"Emma and I have been friends for a long time. She's always given me credit for thinking and having a bit of sense, which is more than I could say for some other people. She's intelligent, attractive, and she can make me smile. We were good friends who had fun together in college. What else should I look for?" Joyce paused, a smile creeping onto her face as she considered Emma. "Right now, we're dating. It might be that we decide we aren't meant to be more than good friends. It might be that we decide that we're really good together. It's a bit early to know, and discovering that is the whole point of dating."

"Huh," Buffy sighed, shaking her head.

"Buffy, you're my daughter, and I love you. I will always love you and Dawn. That's what it means to be a mother. No matter what happens, no matter who I date, I will always love you and want you to be safe," leaning over, she gave her daughter a hug.

"Including from British stalker guys in ugly suits?" Buffy managed a weak smile that didn't fool Joyce for a moment.

"As much as possible, yes. If there is something to this destiny, then we're willing to talk to them if they're reasonable. Reasonable means that they give you a bit of respect, including privacy. It means they talk with us and we make decisions, not they say jump, you say how high, and we say nothing."

"What if they won't be reasonable?" Buffy whispered.

Joyce shook her head, and patted Buffy's back, "Then we get rid of them. Emma said she can find some people to help you train, and some people to help you hunt for dangerous demons. You'll have plenty of good weapons and Emma ordered some armor. I can't keep you completely safe, no matter how appealing the idea is, but we can make you safer when you hunt monsters."

* * * * * * * * *

Cassandra Evans sighed as she opened another folder. The Council had lost the Slayer. Travers was having a royal hissy fit, stomping and shouting and blustering, swearing dire pain and suffering on whoever turned out to be responsible for this situation. She found his reaction childish and a bit amusing, though she would never say so to his face. That would be a very bad thing for her continued career, if not her life. Travers was a politician, and ruthless when he felt it needed.

The Slayer's parents had divorced, with her father remaining in Los Angeles. In fact, Hank Summers had moved into an apartment with one of his co-workers, one that on-site observation had pegged as his current lover, though there might have been – or also be – something with a young waitress at a nearby restaurant. No, he wasn't going to have any further control over his daughters, not the Slayer or the younger child, nor over his ex-wife, though she suspected that there would be some sort of alimony or child support mandated by the courts.

Travers had decreed that the Slayer should relocate to Sunnydale, California, a small town that held the only known active Hellmouth. By his orders, certain arrangements had been made, tampering with school records, whispered rumors and insinuations, and a few other bits of finagling, all intended to make it look as if Sunnydale was the newly divorced mother's only option, the only place that would accept a juvenile delinquent daughter who had burned down part of her last school. Having read the reports from the junior Watcher who hadn't been brave enough to make himself known to the Slayer, Cassandra had to admire the logic of the Slayer's approach – the building was full of vampires and a few people that the vampires had already killed, she couldn't kill them all by combat, so she burned it to the ground. Effective, if a bit destructive. Hardly the makings of a true juvenile delinquent.

But they weren't in Sunnydale. The same junior Watcher that hadn't been brave enough to talk to the Slayer in Los Angeles had observed them go to the airport, and assumed that they would fall in line with The Plan. He had believed in Travers' overconfidence, bought the man's propaganda. And now the one Watcher that had been sent to Sunnydale reported no Slayer, and the three additional Watchers sent to scour the small city and 'find her since she must be there!' had concluded that there was absolutely no Slayer, no Buffy Summers, no anybody Summers.

Watchers were panicking. It was absurd, and stupid, and just a bit amusing.

Cassandra was certain that the key to finding where the Slayer was now was in her mother's past. Something in the past of Joyce Aurora Hike who had married Hank Beauford Summers would be the key to finding where she had gone, where she had taken her two daughters, where the Slayer was right now.

It wasn't her parents, older brother, or her two sisters. The brother was in the military, currently stationed in Texas. The first sister, Constance, was an active member of a small farming and organic foods community in California, and there was a Watcher nearby monitoring a seven year old girl that might be a Potential. He'd reported that there were no new residents, and the only recent visitor of more than a few hours was an old man who seemed to be the father of their beekeeper. One sister had married and lived in Las Vegas, and reports were that Joyce did not get along with patience, called Patty, at all – something about a boyfriend in high school, and another in Joyce's first year of college. That might have had something to do with Joyce transferring to a different college…

If Joyce wasn't with her family, then maybe she'd sought help from a friend she'd met at college. Which meant that she needed to start looking through the woman's history to pick out friends that she'd stayed in contact with, and where they were now. Then it would be easy to have someone check in that area for the recent arrival of the three Summers ladies.

She hoped that whoever Joyce had asked for help was understanding. Knowing a Slayer was never easy, and being a mother was never easy – being the mother to a Slayer had to be a dreadful mess. She also hoped that they could arrange for a decent Watcher to start working with Buffy before it was too late, and the Council had to find the next Slayer.

End part 24.

Buffy spent most of Friday in a combination of writing out what she knew about the Watchers and the most likely demons and sulking about her mother dating Emma Frost. Buffy would insist that most of her time was spent writing, that she was almost sixteen and didn't sulk like a little kid. Saturday morning had a strange short man show up, with iron grey hair, pale eyes, and a large trunk. The trunk contained a full assortment of measuring and fitting items, as well as a variety of armored materials.

Buffy wasn't quite certain what to think about this. Ms. Frost had said that she'd get her some armor, but Buffy hadn't expected this soon, or having someone who was 'some weird armor tailor guy' measuring everything, asking about her range of motion and her normal wardrobe. She noticed that the one thing he didn't pull out to drape over her, half covered in the bottom of his trunk, looked like a shimmering silver sequin fabric.

When he was talking to Ms. Frost, Buffy knelt down to take a closer look, wondering what possible kind of armor something covered with sequins could possibly provide. Except that instead of being something covered in sequins, it was a fine chain mail, with links that she could cover with the tip of her pinky.

That brought home to her just how serious Ms. Frost was about this entire situation. It also made her feel just a tiny bit better about her mom and the dating thing was going on with Ms. Frost. Even someone with scads of money wouldn't shell out the kind of money to get several sets of armor hand made by this guy for the daughter of someone who was just a diversion. Obviously her mom meant something to Ms. Frost.

Nothing else was said until the strange little tailor had left, still without Buffy catching his name. Ms. Frost turned to look at her, and spoke, "You will not be patrolling alone tonight. I've talked to a couple people who will be going with you, and I want you to help them learn what you can teach them about fighting demons and vampires."

"Are you giving me bodyguards?" Buffy yelped, uncertain if she was happy or annoyed by the idea.

"Not precisely. Though I do want you to come home in one uninjured piece," Ms. Frost paused, and then continued in a quieter voice, "You said that you've been fighting alone. There's only one of you, no matter how strong or skilled you are, and there are… I'm certain a good many more monsters. I want them to start out with you until they learn, and then eventually there can be multiple patrols in multiple locations at the same time. This means that if you have the flu, or get injured in a fight, or have a big test, you might not have to patrol at all."

Buffy blinked, thinking about the idea that she could have a night off without leaving the monsters to run unchecked. It was a very nice thought. "And if I do get hurt, I won't have to stagger back on my own and sneak in?"

"I'll make certain I have someone with some measure of medical training standing by," Ms. Frost sighed, "and with a group patrolling, the chance of injury should be reduced, and even if there is an injury, you shouldn't have to go by yourself to find treatment."

Buffy nodded, wondering to herself how many Slayers had fought, defeating some demon or vampire only to die of their wounds because they were fighting alone. She was fairly certain that would suck. And it had probably happened more than once. "… stupid Watchers."

With that, Buffy went to her room to at least look at the homework she had to turn in Monday. The downside to living in the same house as the person in charge of her school was that even calling in sick didn't get her a complete pass for the homework. She was also a bit curious just what sort of people were supposed to go patrolling with her, considering the dangers of demon hunting.

………………………………

Joyce watched as Buffy was measured for armor. She still didn't like the idea of her daughter – her fifteen year old daughter – hunting monsters, but it would be safer with armor, weapons, and someone to watch her back. The fitting had also left Buffy looking more thoughtful and less resentful of Emma, which could only be an improvement. She didn't quite catch what Buffy muttered before she left the room, and turned to look at Emma.

"What sort of people will you be sending with her?"

"The first is a woman who calls herself Jem. She has minor visible mutations, but her physical abilities are considerably enhanced. The second is Ash, and he can produce fire. I found him working in a sideshow as a fire-breathing man. There are a few other people that I've contacted about this, but either they won't be here in time or they haven't given me an answer yet," Emma answered.

"You do have some ideas in case there are more unreasonable Watchers?" Joyce glanced at Emma, wanting just a little reassurance. She knew better than asking if Buffy would be completely safe, or if there would be no more problems.

"Of course I do," Emma cupped her hand on Joyce's cheek, and gave a quick kiss. "I also have some plans in case we get a reasonable one."

Joyce tried to smile, and leaned closer to Emma, taking comfort in her presence. "How likely do you think that is? A reasonable Watcher, I mean."

"We don't know enough about them to guess yet. Though I did start some investigators looking into the people that had regular contact with the one who'd been stalking Buffy. We should start getting some more information soon," Emma replied.

…………………………………….

Elsewhere, Phillip Mooreland frowned as he let himself back into his apartment. He'd been certain that he felt someone following him earlier that day. The sunlight meant it couldn't have been a vampire, but there were any number of demons that could go in the daylight. For that matter, he could have picked up a possibly mugger, or there might have been yet another person who thought he looked a bit too much like David Bowie. He'd run into a few people who were certain he was the musician in disguise, and he found it frustratingly amusing – he was quite fond of the man's work, though he had gone through a few strange turns. To Phillip's personal dismay, he couldn't sing worth ten pence.

He just didn't understand why anybody would be following him. He worked in an organic food store, took a yoga class, and paid all his bills on time. He didn't have a lover, which ruled out the chance of a jealous husband being angry with him for his transgressions. No traffic offenses or trouble with the local constables… nothing.

Starting the kettle of water for tea, Phillip pulled out his copy of Chammerly's Index of Water Demons and turned to the section on cold ocean demons. There had been some odd things towards the docks, and it was a wise Watcher who was prepared for whatever demons they might encounter. Also a Watcher who might live to see old age. Now what sort of demon might it have been… a thin, man sized figure lurking at the water's edge. Granted, it could have been one of the local human vagrants, but… it could also have been a demon.

Maybe whoever had been following him would get bored and go away.

End part 25.


	13. parts 26 and 27

The words on the pages didn't change, though there were just a few that she was only guessing at. That word was either fins or fine… but just a little bit earlier Buffy had been scribbling about how to identify, so Joyce suspected that fins might make more sense. If you accepted demons being real… If she accepted that there were a group of people that wanted Buffy to hunt demons.

That section said 'Merrik, mole awfull destiny'… at least, that had better be 'mole' instead of 'motel', though she was certain that they'd had that removed. Buffy'd complained that it had gotten bigger, and they'd been worried about skin cancer… But how would this Merrick have known about it?

"Scowling like that can cause wrinkles," Emma's voice came from the doorway.

"Possible stalkers spying on Buffy in Los Angeles and identifying her by a mark on her shoulder," Joyce countered. "I think I have a reason to be unhappy."

"Where on her shoulder?" Emma moved closer. "Could it have been as simple as a photograph at the beach?"

"Buffy hated that mole. She always wore things that covered it. The only places it would have been exposed were at home or in the doctor's office, unless she did more with her boyfriends than she would admit to me," Joyce explained. "We had the doctor remove it when she was twelve… we were afraid it might be turning cancerous."

"Presumably it wasn't," Emma walked closer, and glanced at the pages. "That explains a few comments from her teachers. At least she won't have to worry about people copying from her. "

"The doctor assured us that all the tests came back clean."

Emma settled beside Joyce, and started looking at some of the pages. "Hand to hand combat, swords, mentions of archer… It sounds as if these people need to step out of the sixteenth century. Have they been briefed on some very destructive inventions called firearms and cannons that make use of a dangerous substance called gunpowder? Do they even try to get rid of these demons from a distance, or do they just send a girl to go fight them?"

"We can hope that they might take a more practical approach in places without a Slayer. The other option is that they gave my daughter an exaggerated line about being the world's only defense. Then again," Joyce frowned, remembering all sorts of dreadful things from the news, "I'm not sure that giving a teenager, important destiny or not, a gun is a good idea."

"Or maybe they thought a Slayer with a modern weapon would remove them as well as the demons and vampires," Emma countered. "With a sword, she'd at least have to be close to them."

"Considering the one you dealt with, would that be a great loss?" Joyce murmured.

"We shouldn't assume that all of them are like that particular pervert. From the little that we know so far, these Watchers have considerable resources and numbers. While I'm not saying that we couldn't handle them, there's no point in making an enemy where we don't need to," Emma sighed, "And I'm reluctant to let them know everything that I can do."

"I suppose that makes sense," Joyce admitted. "Didn't you say that you'd hired investigators to look into the other people that guy was talking to? Other possible Watchers?"

"I should be getting reports Monday."

With that bit of reassurance, Joyce left to go to work at Misty's gallery. She hoped that Misty was in a decent mood, though Irene being in the area should help. What Misty had said about her son being all grown up, a lawyer and a member of that awful group… maybe there wasn't as much of an age gap between Misty and Irene as she'd first thought?

The drive was ordinary enough, except for the way that her thoughts kept wandering to these Watchers, to speculating about demons and vampires. Thinking about the bruises that she'd seen on Buffy and wondering how much worse they could have been... could still be. Hardly comforting thoughts…

"Joyce. I was starting to wonder if something had happened," Misty's voice rang from the back.

"A few things did, none of which need be discussed out in the front," Joyce admitted. She wasn't entirely certain how much she could or should tell Misty, but figured that it would be stupid not to admit that something had happened. Or that it involved her eldest daughter.

"We can talk in the back," Misty's tone made it clear that it wasn't an offer or a suggestion.

Joyce nodded, and made her way towards the office, her hands curling into fists as she stalked across the floor. As much as she didn't like the start of this conversation, she was still so angry about what had been done to her daughter, what that miserable voyeuristic bastard had been trying to do…

"Bad roads?" Misty's opening words were more as a reminder that they had reached the office than any sort of serious expectation that the problems were due to the road system.

Joyce doubted that it would be wise to say very much… Sanity was a wonderful thing.

"Maybe problems with your ex?"

Before she could stop them, the words began to pour out of her lips, faster and louder as she remembered Buffy's words about destiny, about how there was no way out, about how she was supposed to fight alone. Remembered the man with pictures of her daughter. "Last week, I learned that my fifteen year old daughter had managed to pick up a stalker, someone who was caught with pictures of her at the beach, shopping, moving about her school… at the doorway of the school locker room. Then I learned that this stalker's defense was that there were monsters out there, that demons and vampires were real and my daughter is supposed to fight them. And this nightmare mess has been told to Buffy, and now my fifteen year old daughter is at home fearful that she won't reach sixteen because of monsters out there and some lunatic voyeur wants to send her after them with a pointy stick and a prayer!"

"Demons? Vampires? Joyce…" Misty moved towards the chair, her eyes wide and fading to yellow.

"It isn't fair! She's supposed to be worried about school, and boys, and talking me into teaching her how to drive, not worried about monsters attacking her or crazy stalkers!"

"Oh Joyce," Misty sighed and moved closer, reaching out to catch Joyce's wrists. "It sounds like your week has been horribly interesting."

"That's one way to put it," Joyce admitted, her knees shaking. "I think I need to sit down…"

"The chair's right here," Misty murmured. "Considering all of that, being a bit late is quite understandable. Don't worry about a thing."

Misty left Joyce in the office with the ledgers and the scheduling books. Joyce felt a touch of relief that this wouldn't ruin her job just when she was getting everything straightened out. Nobody would need to know that she'd had a bit of a cry in the office, overwrought by the idea of crazy stalkers watching as Buffy was beaten to death by strange, twisted shapes with teeth and claws.

End part 26.

The rest of the day was tedious, with figures and scheduling, and fussing about delivery arrangements for several pieces of art that had recently been purchased. Joyce didn't plan to talk about the fact that she'd had to stop several times and calm down about the idea of that awful stalker spying on Buffy or imagining how many others were like him, or imagining Buffy injured, crippled, or killed by monsters. Or the fact that when she stopped for lunch, it wasn't something even marginally healthy, but rather some terribly unhealthy comfort food, followed by strawberry ice cream.

Pulling herself together for more than the short term was easier said than done. It wasn't helped by the still healing mess of the divorce, where Hank had basically said it was all her fault that he was cheating on her – accusing her of not being woman enough to satisfy him, accusing her of hindering his career, of it being her fault that Buffy had needed to be put into a mental institution. How he'd said that she'd never make it without him. How he'd left with this bright eyed little redhead that might not have even been legal to drink alcohol. The bastard. Damn him, and damn Astrid for sticking her with him.

She'd found herself wondering about what she and Emma might have. Were they moving too quickly? Was she being too cautious, too prudish to keep such a lovely temptress as Emma Frost? Could she even keep Emma's interest for more than a short while, or would she be not woman enough for Emma as well? Would this interest fizzle out, leaving only the ruins of the best friendship that she'd ever had? Was it selfish of her to want things to go well, to lead to them being a happy, devoted, passionate couple?

And there was her daughters' educations to consider. Buffy, who might not even have a future if some British stalker was to be believed. Or a future filled with violence, pain and eventual too-soon death. Was it even worth worrying about Buffy's French lessons if she would be fighting demons for the rest of her life? Or Dawn's future, with or without the meddling of Maria Stepford? Dawn didn't know what she wanted, changing her mind from week to week.

By the time she was ready to go home, Joyce thought that maybe she'd chased away some of her irrational worries fears and frettings. Hank was an ass. He'd been an ass in college, that was why she'd decided to split up from him before Astrid the telepathic meddling bitch had interfered. Astrid's meddlings had insulated Hank from needing to grow up, so he hadn't. Hank being an ass had impaired his career far more than she ever could have even if she'd tried. Now, Hank the ass wasn't her problem. Emma had dealt with Astrid years ago, though the fallout of Astrid's manipulations would continue for those who'd suffered at her hands, even if they might not remember any of it.

If she didn't make Emma happy, Emma would have no hesitations about letting her know. And if they were careful, even if the romance and passion fizzled away, their friendship would remain. Letting 'what if's and fears destroy the relationship before it got a good start would be stupid, and she didn't intend to be a stupid woman.

She had no intention of just letting Buffy fight alone until she died, and neither did Emma. They would come up with something. French was useful, and far safer for Buffy to spend a few hours on occasionally than demon hunting. French was also spoken in many parts of the world, and why would there only be demons and vampires in places that spoke English?

Dawn was only ten. If Joyce hadn't known what she'd wanted to do with her life at ten – she'd considered being a movie star like Marylin Monroe, or a plantation owner like Scarlett O'Harra, or maybe an astronaut, or a princess, or maybe a ballerina… Dawn still had time to figure to what she was good at, and what she wanted to do. Maria Stepford could offer advice and suggestions, but she wouldn't control Dawn.

There were enough real problems without letting worries and stress create more.

She just hoped that her stress-induced confession to Misty hadn't caused new problems. She hadn't meant to admit half of what she'd spilled. At least she had left it at things a stalker had said, instead of mentioning that the monsters could be real, that her daughter might have such an awful destiny.

Her trip back home was almost calm. The biggest shock was that as she was parking the sleek white car in the garage, Joyce realized that somehow Emma's place had become 'home' in her mind. Home implied a lot more than just being a place to stay, it was a place that felt comfortable, a place where she could be herself, could relax. Could change things, or run around barefoot, or in her underwear at two in the morning. Home was where she could feel happy.

That was a much better thought to dwell on than anything that had filled her mind this morning.

Joyce walked into the main part of the house feeling better. This had become home while she wasn't paying attention. While she was worried about Dawn making friends, about Buffy sneaking out again, about if she and Emma might be good lovers as well as good friends. And the horrible things that Hank had said were starting to heal. Oh, there was still a long way to go with those wounds, but they no longer caused the same raw, paralyzing pain as before. Life was looking up in so many ways.

"Joyce, I'm glad you're home," Emma smiled before kissing her.

Yes, there were still problems, but life was looking up.

"It's good to be home, Emma. Do we have better plans? More people to help deal with the dangerous demons so that Buffy doesn't end up dying alone in a filthy alley in the middle of the night?"

"I've found a medical person to keep on hand. The team I've assembled for now will help Buffy, and we can add more people later, eventually splitting them into several groups patrolling. None of my people are going to die alone and unmissed in an alley. We can work on refining patrol patterns and procedures once we have a better idea, which means more questions for Buffy and a thorough debriefing of my first team once they've been patrolling with Buffy a few times," Emma held Joyce close, fingers running through her hair.

"We can make this work, make it safer for your daughter. Life is never completely safe, but we can help. I've even arranged for a French tutor," Emma whispered into Joyce's ear.

Joyce just held on, wanting to believe with everything that she was that this would work, that things would be better. Better for Joyce and Emma, better for Buffy, better for Dawn. Maybe even better for all the other girls out there that might end up with possibly voyeuristic British stalkers talking about demons and destiny.

End part 27.


	14. parts 28 and 29

In a small office in the basement of an old building in London, Charles Farnesworth began sorting thought the latest batch of American Watcher dispatches. Field Watchers were supposed to send reports to Headquarters on a monthly or at least quarterly basis, depending on just how far afield they were, and then someone had to sort through those dispatches to pass on anything necessary or important. This tedious task was often left to those who were too injured for the field and not politically powerful enough to rise in the hierarchy, too new to have any experience, or too clumsy to trust in an area with weapons.

Tedious as these dispatches might be, they helped track demonic migration routes, power struggles among demon clans and vampire families, and the odd prophet. Sometimes they also uncovered new Potentials or could be the first clue that a new Slayer had been called. Dispatches from the Watcher of an actual Slayer were sent to a different office, one that carried a bit more prestige.

Maerrecholiths swarming near Bermuda… they did seek warm waters on a multi-year breeding cycle to spawn. He wasn't quite certain when or where the actual mating occurred, but groups of them sought warm waters to spawn in cycles of five, seven or ten years. There was a theory that these spawning runs ha some connection to boats disappearing in the Bermuda region, but that wouldn't explain the aircraft…

Vampires in Louisiana and Georgia having alligator fights for the amusement of the local demon underworld. How charmingly brutal.

Possible demon turtle in North Carolina. Confirmed presence of a Potential, with the local Watcher beginning her into some training. Excellent work, though that one was getting a bit old, perhaps it would be wise to send a younger Watcher to that area soon?

Emotion controlling demons in northern Virginia and the DC area meddling with politicians. Confirmation of the presence of a branch of Wolfram & Hart, a law firm with demonic connections. A maybe-Potential hired as an aide to a senator. A confirmed Potential still uncalled at twenty three, now engaged to a minor mage. An attempt by a pair of vampires to break into the Smithsonian foiled by local security. Another request to investigate rumors of ghosts at Arlington National Cemetery…

Fyarl demons and vampires being used as low level thugs and brute force by organized crime in New Jersey. A trio of part-demon cousins seeking a musical career, with the downside being that one of them was part succubus and left her fan-boys in the hospital. Another one of those wretched houses where humans let vampires feed from them for some sort of perverse pleasure…

From New York, there was a possible sighting of an Ik'Tarin demon in the sewer system. Demon rats confirmed in the sewers, but as they seemed to have a taste for carrion and vampires, they were judged of interest but not a large threat. A five year old girl hit a bully at her kindergarten and the bully had a broken rib… a possible Potential? One of the field Watchers had pictures of a young blond woman, someone that he said had displayed unusual strength, and there was a picture enclosed, with the request to compare to known potentials. Another had written that Jeremy Claybourne, one of the quieter field Watchers had been placed into an asylum, babbling about monsters and demanding that the Slayer or the Girl go fight them.

Oh dear. While he could think of several explanations for Claybourne to snap, in the end, the 'why' was less important. It was going to be a problem. It could be some sort of previously concealed mental instability. It could also have been the result of some sort of magical or demonic attack. Regardless, Claybourne would need to be treated or silenced.

Picking up the letters with the report on Jeremy Claybourne and the one that held the picture of the reportedly strong blond, Charles Farnesworth decide to go talk to Victoria Sutton. She'd been a brilliant field Watcher until a combination of injury and age had left her no longer suitable for the demands of the position. Even today, the woman's mind was as sharp as a sword, even if she did have very thick glasses and hobble about with a cane. Though if he was doing as well at eighty, he'd be very thankful…

It was a short walk down the hall to the elevator, which he took to the ground level. While Ms. Sutton was not on the top level of the Council, she was from an old Watcher line, had found seventeen Potentials, trained three Slayers, and had slain several demons and vampires by her own efforts. In fact, it was supposed to be an injury form one of those demons that forced her to start using a cane. All of that combined to give her a quiet office on the ground floor, with a window showing a small garden.

"Ms. Sutton? I was hoping to ask for your advice before I pass on my summary of the field Watcher reports," he didn't raise his voice. The woman might be old, but there was nothing wrong with her ears.

"I have a fresh pot of tea," she replied. It wasn't quite an invitation, despite the feeble sunlight entering her window.

"A cup would be lovely," he smiled as he entered the little office. Settling in the second chair, he waited until he had a cup of tea, took a sip and complimented the brew, "A nice strong cup. This would be good for long nights at the books."

After a few more pleasantries, he pulled out the envelopes. "One of the field Watchers in New York City has… either snapped out of his mind and started babbling about demons and Slayers or suffered some sort of attack against his mind."

"Has he influential relatives? Perhaps there is a history of useful reports and personal efforts to remove some of the local demons?" Ms. Sutton's questions were calm, focused on the larger scale than one babbling Watcher.

"Neither. In fact, his reports tend to be long winded, rambling, and seldom provide anything of use," Charles admitted.

"Then it might be simplest to send someone to eliminate him," she sighed. "What do they teach them anymore?"

"There was one other matter. A young woman reported with unusual strength…" he passed the picture over to Ms. Sutton.

For a long moment, she looked at the picture. Carefully, she sat her cup of tea down, and traced over the woman's face. "This is Buffy Summers, the current Slayer. Travers was attempting to send her to Sunnydale, California."

"The letter is postmarked from New York Coty. That tends to suggest that she didn't go to Sunnydale…" Charles Farnesworth offered.

"Quite," her smile was almost as sharp as a vampire's. "We shall have to tell Travers that his missing Slayer has been found. Someone else can get a more precise location now that you can tell him what city to search."

"He seems to focus more on the political aspects than on his duties," Charles murmured.

"If it takes too long for her to be found, or if things go badly at Sunnydale after he swore that he had everything under control, then there might be a new Chair of the Council."

"A very good point…"

End part 28.

Joyce tried to conceal her worry as Buffy left with the people that Emma had found. They were going to go hunting monsters. Her daughter was going hunting for monsters, accompanied by a man who could breathe fire and a pink haired woman with super strength and a fondness for eighties pop music and sequins. Between the three of them, they had a small arsenal, though the most modern weapon Buffy carried was a crossbow, along with a couple knives, an axe, and some sharpened bits of wood.

"Ash has considerable skill at fighting, though it isn't anything approaching a formal style with rules. Combine that with his ability to breathe out fire, and he doesn't need to worry about vampires and he can help keep Buffy safer. Despite her musical hobby, Jem is far more dangerous than she looks," Emma whispered into Joyce's mind.

"She'd about have to be," Joyce scowled. "She looks like someone made a costume from a cartoon character."

Emma chuckled before commenting, "She can bend iron bars, bench press six hundred pounds, and is as flexible as a professional acrobat. There's also the fact that her skin is damage resistant and has a crystalline component to make it naturally sparkle…"

"She's strong, she's fast, she sparkles and sings…" Joyce shook her head. "That really sounds like some sort of cartoon character. The sort of cartoon where problems are solved within twenty minutes and there's a trite little saying about making life better before everyone hugs…"

"It makes people underestimate her, which helps her defeat them. She does have a bit of a fascination with cartoons… But then, everyone needs a hobby," Emma shrugged.

Joyce considered that carefully. A hobby… watching cartoons and singing eighties pop music. "It could be worse. She could be spying on teenagers in their locker rooms at school."

"Very true," Emma agreed.

Joyce managed to stay mostly quiet until Buffy, Jem and Ash had left. Buffy hunting for monsters was dangerous enough, even well armed and in the company of people that Emma swore would help keep her safe. Causing Buffy to go out knowing that her mother was worried about seeing her maimed or dead and was fretting and fussing out loud… that could only make things worse. It would be far better if Buffy thought that Joyce was confident that with the weapons and backup, Buffy would be as safe and fine as Buffy had insisted she would be.

Once she could no longer see the van that they were using, Joyce sighed. She still didn't want to fret and fuss and collapse into a near-hysterical heap. If there was something else that she could focus on instead, then that would help stave off the worry and dread. "Do you have those reports from the investigators on the people that Claybourne as associating with? Now might be a good time to look over some of them."

"To keep you from worrying too much about Buffy?" Emma looked at Joyce before continuing, "I have some reports. They don't cover everyone, and they aren't enough to form a well educated opinion on the people, but it might help you."

"Fair enough, except for one point. This is my fifteen year old daughter going out to fight monsters. I'm worrying just enough about her."

Emma looked like she was going to say something else, but sighed, her shoulders slumping forwards a tiny amount, "I suppose that does change things. My mother wouldn't have worried if it had been me going out to fight. She might not have even noticed, and not because of the size of the family home. Neither of my parents cared the way that you do."

"Then we'll have to be better parents than they were," Joyce whispered, her hand catching Emma's arm.

Joyce walked with Emma to her office, savoring the feeling of Emma's skin beneath her hand. Of having someone to help her, not from any lack of faith in her abilities but from concern and compassion and the desire to be with her. It didn't make this any less disturbing, but she didn't have to fight Emma to get things accomplished, to have the energy and time for her job, to take care of her daughters. She didn't need to cater to Emma's ego and indulge her whims. Though it did occur to her that finding out a few of Emma's whims could be very interesting. She recalled something about whipped cream and strawberries back when they were in college…

"The first report was on Claybourne's apartment manager, with shorter bits about his neighbors. Apart from some pictures of the apartment manager with a very flexible woman who's clearly a natural redhead, there's nothing on the manager to take up our time. The neighbors had minimal contact with Claybourne, and while a few have been lying to immigration and the residents of number 347 appear to be in a rather interesting three way arrangement, there's nothing to connect the neighbors to this Council or to suggest that they have an interest in Buffy. Though there was a sex offender record on someone the next floor down…" Emma lifted the folder and dropped it to the other side of the desk.

"Why do we have reports on the manager and neighbors sex lives?" Joyce asked, her fingers hovering near the folder.

"That is the most common thing for private investigators to be called in about. Suspected affairs, runaway children, and hidden assets for divorce cases…" Shaking her head, Emma gave Joyce a crooked smirk. "As long as they also get the information that I do want, I just ignore their tangents into the various sex lives. Once in a while they have interesting suggestions, but most of the time it's just more of the same."

"That must give them a rather unimpressive opinion of people," Joyce murmured.

"Next report is on a fellow named Phillip Mooreland. He's not quite as easily categorized," Emma handed Joyce the next file, this one with a Polaroid photograph paper-clipped to the front. The photo showed a man with a remarkable resemblance to David Bowie, though without the same flamboyant and distinctive wardrobe.

Joyce smiled at the picture, unable to stop herself from asking, "I wonder if he sings?"

Emma chuckled, "According to the investigator, he doesn't. We aren't certain if that's by choice or from a pure lack of skill. I'm wondering how he'd look with longer, uneven hair and tights."

Joyce tried not to laugh as she opened the report. "I doubt that he's the goblin king. Though he might not look bad in tights… which is completely off the subject."

According to the file, Phillip Mooreland was British, here on a work visa. He had an almost full time job at an organic food store, and lived alone in a small apartment. No current lovers, not dating anyone, and not in contact with anyone identified as a previous lover. He took a yoga class on Tuesdays, and met with some sort of language group on Thursdays over at a university. No car, no traffic violations. He did have a habit of taking long walks, sometimes into odd areas, like along the harbor, or through questionable parts of town, though he never seemed to be meeting anyone on these walks. He'd met with Claybourne a few days before Emma had caused Claybourne's confinement, and they had clearly known each other.

Joyce frowned, considering those walks. If he wasn't meeting anyone, then it wasn't an affair, and he wasn't dropping things off or picking them up then it wasn't some sort of drug transportation. British. Knew Claybourne. Studied foreign languages. Walking around the area… "I think we found another Watcher."

"You may be right. We'd best find out a bit more about him. If he's already in the area, he's a better choice to approach us than them sending someone over from their headquarters. He might be someone that we can work with," Emma agreed.

Joyce nodded, hoping that things went well for Buffy and her patrolling. That this Phillip Mooreland was someone reasonable. That Dawn would continue to stay out of trouble. That life would continue to be better than Los Angeles.

End part 29.


	15. parts 30 and 31

Joyce had no words to convey how relieved she was that Buffy returned home safe, with nothing more serious than some scrapes and a few bruises. Not that the idea of her daughter having bruises was good, but bruises were far better than broken bones, and scrapes were much better than cuts or punctures requiring stitches. Buffy was muttering about the demise of her shirt, gesturing at the slashes that told Joyce something with three sharp edges had tried to open up Buffy's stomach. Something else had left green stains splashed over the right sleeve.

As much as she agreed that those green stains wouldn't come out and the slashes would ruin the shirt anyhow, Joyce felt oddly relieved. The stains were green, not red. Not Buffy's blood. There were reddish brown stains that had splashed onto the clothing of Jem and Ash, but none of it was near cuts or holes, giving the impression that it was someone else's blood. Or perhaps something else.

"The armor under the shirt was beneficial?" Emma's calm voice made her words less of a question and more of a statement.

"Yeah. Still not fun to have those claws coming at me, but the armor's great," Buffy smiled.

"Wonderful. You should get some rest, I believe that you have a test tomorrow for History, and a pop quiz in biology," Emma had a little smirk as she sent Buffy to her room.

"Do the other students know about the pop quiz?" Joyce asked. Part of her wondered if Emma was playing favorites just a little, and another part wondered if perhaps it was an attempt to help make up for the damage that fighting demons would cause to Buffy's study schedule. Then again, thinking back on Buffy's study habits over the last six years, maybe demon hunting was just a really good excuse instead of the various bad ones that had been offered before?

"No. However, if I learn of any other students hunting demons and vampires to kill them before they eat random citizens, I'll give them notice about upcoming tests and quizzes as well. There are some things that are more important than a paper test," Emma admitted.

"I suppose that works," Joyce conceded.

Joyce had bad dreams that night, of various ways things could have become a disaster for Buffy. Scenes out of horror movies where the monster attacks the lone girl out for a walk – and why were those girls so often little blondes, like Buffy? Fights with someone pulling a gun and shooting Buffy at point blank range. Just how effective was that armor that Emma had provided? What about all the dreadful things that could happen just from being in the wrong place at the wrong time – drive-by shootings, out-of-control cars, falling signs… Joyce knew that she was worrying about absurd things, but that didn't make the images go away.

Joyce almost hated going to work in the morning. She hadn't slept well, due to assorted bad dreams and irrational fears. They still needed to determine if they'd approach the probable Watcher Phillip Mooreland. Only the fact that a Watcher would have information on the demons – information that could help keep Buffy safer – left her thinking that this could be a good idea. There was also the fact that Maria Stepford was still trying to intimidate Dawn into being a follower to the Stepford girls. While the girls seemed nice enough, and Dawn liked them, she had no intentions of permitting her daughter to become anyone's minion.

Thankfully, work was quiet and uneventful. It helped Joyce to work through her worries for Buffy's safety in a drawn out, logical fashion. Yes, her daughter was in danger when she went on patrol. So were police officers. As long as Buffy had the training, equipment, and information that's he needed, she should be as safe as possible. Emma would make sure that Buffy had medical help – while some arrogant council might be content to accept 'one dies, another is chosen', Joyce wasn't about to just accept her daughter dying of anything other than old age without a fight. She also concluded that they'd have to explain at least a little of the Slayer mess to Dawn, preferably before she started to ask why Buffy was getting the rules bent for her classes.

Joyce didn't think that getting advance warning about tests and quizzes made up for having to fight monsters.

Buffy's return from school came with a thump of the book bag falling and a dismissive hand wave, "School bites."

"Could you give me a bit more detail, Buffy?" she asked her daughter.

"Stupid history test. I'm pretty sure I mixed up some of those figures, and I may have written that one of them got turned into a vampire and later slain…" Buffy shook her head, and muttered, "…and the football team found a couple dead bodies in their locker room. I didn't get a look, but I doubt it was natural causes."

"In a school locker room? What would they have been doing…" Joyce let that go, her mind supplying all too many options of what people could have been doing in a locker room, including the simple 'changing clothing with the wrong people watching'. No matter what the answer was, it would probably put Emma in a bad mood. If it was related to monsters… "Never mind what they were doing. Will you need to find out the details of this? As the Slayer?"

"If it was monsters, I'll need to know. If it was dumb jocks, drugs, or ordinary human maniacs, the police get the job. Right now I have no idea what did what in there," Buffy sighed.

"I suppose that is a good reason to be unhappy about school today."

"Pretty much. I can't see how things could get messier," Buffy collapsed into a chair.

"Then you can help me figure out what we tell Dawn about you and this destiny. She's going to notice eventually," Joyce tried to smile at Buffy.

Buffy's eyes popped open, and her jaw dropped. "Mom! How can… We can't… but..!"

"Dawn's going to notice. Especially if you keep getting heads up notices about quizzes," Joyce repeated.

"I was wrong, the day can get worse," Buffy mumbled.

End part 30.

When Dawn arrived, she was mumbling about horrible fates, evil, and chocolate. Occasionally the phrase 'that's not right' would appear, and once or twice there was 'sorry'. It was enough to leave Joyce worried and thinking thorugh all sorts of alarming possibilities.

"Dawn? What has you so worked up?"

"Mindee said something about her mom. It's just not right, and now I feel sorry for Mrs. Stepford," Dawn offered, before mumbling again about things not being right.

"I thought it was impossible to feel sorry for that woman," Buffy countered.

"It's horrible," Dawn insisted. "She's allergic to chocolate!"

"Oh," Buffy blinked. "I guess I can feel sorry for her. What about Mindee?"

"They aren't allergic to anything. Not chocolate like their mom or strawberries like their dad," Dawn replied.

"As horrible of a fate as a chocolate allergy might sound, there are worse things," Joyce told her younger daughter. Perhaps Buffy would take the rather large hint and volunteer something about her own horrible fate. A fate that she and Emma were determined to improve.

"I've got a bunch of weird British stalkers telling me I need to go fight monsters," Buffy offered. "It's really bad for my shoes."

"Monsters? Does this make you like the real life version of… no, that's silly…" Dawn paused, "and I thought there was no such thing as monsters?"

"There are, but not normally hiding under the bed," Buffy replied.

"There is more to life than shoes," Joyce told Buffy, a half smile on her face. Dawn was making parallels between Buffy's claims of fighting monsters and that cartoon that Dawn enjoyed, a Japanese animation with a group of girls in terrible outfits with silly battles that involved a lot of posing, shouting, flashing lights, and nobody ever getting seriously hurt. It did give a far less serious impression than 'I have to fight monsters until I die', the way Buffy had explained it to her.

"Does this destiny come with an outfit that's supposed to be cool and a short skirt? What about a cute sidekick? Or the mysterious cute guy with not that helpful advice and dramatic music?" Dawn asked.

"No, it doesn't have a wardrobe department, that's why it's so bad for my shoes. It would be a good deal nicer if it did come with the handsome and mysterious guy with advice," Buffy sighed. "Ms. Frost found me a couple sidekicks, and I guess you could maybe call Jem cute. She kind of fits the animated girl hero image a lot better."

"So my sister's a magical girl with a destiny to protect, only without the bright lights and the not quite nude costume change scenes? That's sort of cool," Dawn looked thoughtful. "So that's why you get a heads up about quizzes? Can I sign up to be a magical girl?"

"NO!" Buffy shouted.

Joyce took a slightly quieter approach, "Honey, I don't think it works like that. You're also too young to stay up that late fighting evil."

"Too young… you're always telling me that," Dawn huffed.

"Only when you ask about things that you're still too young to do," Joyce countered.

Dawn just rolled her eyes.

"Now, what about homework?" Joyce watched as both of her daughters dragged their books to the table, grumbling about reports and homework and awful teachers.

Several hours later, the girls had finished their homework and retreated to their rooms. Buffy had promised to neaten up her closet, organizing the shoes and making certain that everything was either hung up or in the hamper. Dawn had claimed that she was going to read, and maybe listen to some music. Joyce suspected that they might both end up listening to music, with little cleaning being accomplished. Or perhaps they'd wind up arguing about music…

When Emma walked in, it didn't take a telepath to see that she was unhappy. Anyone that knew her would be able to read the tension in her shoulders, the way her arms were held stiffly at her sides, the fingers straight and pressed together in a position frequently seen on mannequins, the way the tall heels of her white boots stabbed into the carpet. Seeing her lips pressed together and her brows dipping in the middle suggested that either she was extremely worked up, or she was feeling less need to guard her expressions.

"That man was an utter idiot," Emma snarled.

"Someone who came to the scene? Buffy mentioned something about bodies found by the football team," Joyce offered.

"Something killed one of the linebackers and a cheerleader. It looked as if they had slipped inside for a tryst and something came in and ripped them apart."

"So we will need to tell Buffy about it. She said if it was some sort of monster, then she'd have to deal with whatever killed them," Joyce sighed. "I think I'd prefer if it was some sort of argument out of hand, or drugs… Something that wouldn't have Buffy chasing the killer."

"As much as I don't want gunfights and drug problems at my school, I can see your point," Emma admitted before hissing "The inspector tried to blame it on some wandering feral mutant, and then he decided to try wild dogs as an explanation."

"Wild dogs, in a locker room? A locker room in the middle of a school campus in a large city?" Joyce shook her head, trying to figure out how anyone could believe that. "While I can maybe understand dogs outside, sniffing at the foundations, how would they get inside the building? Dogs can't use doorknobs."

"While technically it could have been a feral mutant – they do have thumbs – I'm inclined to think vampires or some other sort of monster. From the thoughts of the people on the scene, it was definitely some sort of biting and slashing injuries. But wild animals would have eaten part of the bodies, wouldn't they? From the sheer quantity of pieces, it didn't look like anything was missing, just… no longer properly attached," Emma paused, looking a bit pale.

"Not that I'm arguing, but why are you ruling out a feral mutant?" Joyce asked. "We do need to consider various possibilities."

"Any mutant feral enough to do that to someone without extreme provocation wouldn't be hiding in a locker room, they'd seek somewhere else, a basement, a cave, the back corner of a garage, maybe one of the maintenance sheds. Any mutant capable of enough planning and self control to go into the locker room, wait for people to be that distracted, and leave without being seen isn't a feral running on instinct. A true feral would have left more signs of being there, property damage, towels ripped into bedding, gouges in the walls. I suppose it could be a clawed mutant who is also a homicidal voyeur, but a monster… a demon sounds more likely," Emma explained.

"Occam's Razor," Joyce nodded.

"We'll talk to Buffy in the morning, and I can show her the scene. They took the… pieces away. Then in the afternoon, I suggest trying to contact Mr. Mooreland. If we can work with him, then we need someone who knows how to identify and kill demons," Emma's words were not quite a suggestion and not quite an order.

"The learning curve would be too dangerous," Joyce agreed.

End part 31.


	16. parts 32 and 33

Joyce sipped at a cup of coffee while she and Emma discussed how to contact Phillip Mooreland. While the investigator had provided his address and telephone number, neither one of them gave any serious thought to simply walking up to his apartment and asking to come in and have a little chat. That would be too direct, and too easy for things to go badly wrong if he wasn't a decent sort.

It had also been obvious that the matters were not the sort of thing to be discussed over the telephone. A face to face meeting, preferably during the daytime hours so that they could all be reassured that nobody was a vampire, would be best.

"If we don't want to go into his apartment, his territory, it might be a good idea not to have it on yours either," Joyce suggested. "He might already feel threatened by our knowing about his involvement with these Watchers."

"And if he's trouble, then it might be best not to have him anywhere near the children, and deniability works best if he doesn't go near the corporate building," Emma agreed. "So, somewhere neutral and halfway public. Open enough that he won't feel we're planning to kill him and private enough to prevent eavesdropping."

"Now that we've sorted that out, I should probably take Buffy in to the Academy early tomorrow. That will let her inspect the locker room, and perhaps she will be able to learn something that will be of use," Emma sighed, rubbing at her shoulder.

"You said it was messy. Will she still be able to focus on schoolwork after something like that?" Joyce asked. Buffy had said that it was her duty to handle things like that, but she was still only fifteen, still her daughter. "How much will the police and their crime scene people have moved or cleaned up?"

"Things will still be messy," Emma admitted.

As she saw her friend wincing again, Joyce sighed, "Emma, you look terribly tense. Why don't I give you a backrub?"

"That would be wonderful," Emma smiled, leaning forwards a bit. "Or are you just looking for an excuse to put your hands on my body?"

Moving to stand behind Emma, Joyce started kneading Emma's knotted muscles. As she listened to Emma making contented little noises, Joyce asked, "Do you think I should tell Misty about these crazy British guys who think my daughter needs to fight monsters?"

"It might be a good precaution," Emma sighed, "Oh, that feels good. Wonderful. You have about a century to stop that."

"Hedonist," Joyce giggled, her hands running down beside Emma's spine in search of more knots.

"You say that as if it were a bad thing," Emma purred.

"Should I even ask what I'm supposed to do with you?" Joyce teased, her fingers working on a knot just beneath Emma's ribs, one probably not helped by the corset that her friend was wearing. Tracing the edge of the stiffened lace, "This is probably making things worse."

"Then maybe you should help me out of it," Emma smiled.

…..

In the morning, Emma took Buffy with her to the Frost Academy. Joyce hoped that things wouldn't be too unsettling, too dangerous. Even if Buffy was this Chosen Slayer, which Joyce still wasn't sure she believed, Buffy was still only fifteen. Buffy was still her daughter, and a part of her wanted to keep Buffy and Dawn safe from the world. Impossible, and foolish to try, but that desire was still there.

She left to go to Misty's art gallery. If she took care of everything early enough, she could be home before Buffy and Dawn, and watch over her girls while Emma talked to Phillip Mooreland. Not that they'd be safer with her there than if she wasn't – Emma had wonderful home security – but she'd feel better about it.

"You look lost in thought, Joyce. Is it your daughter's stalker again?" Misty asked.

"Yes. My friend hired an investigator to look into the stalker and his background. Apparently he's part of a group that call themselves Watchers, and they seem to have ties overseas. The investigator couldn't determine if the rest of these Watchers are also out stalking girls and trying to have them fight monsters, but…" Joyce sighed.

"But it's a possibility. And people fight to keep their beliefs, especially the ones who have issues with reality and limits," Misty finished.

"If there are more of them fixated on the idea that my daughter needs to fight demons and vampires, they might go to extreme measures to make her follow their beliefs. Parents make good leverage against their children, and people might move against the employers of the parent to get them off balance or to look stronger," Joyce repeated part of the lecture that Emma had given her when convincing her to take martial arts lessons.

"So you wanted me to know about these people so that I can be prepared, in case they try anything?" Misty smirked. "You don't need to worry about me, Joyce. I can take care of myself if things get messy. If anybody is foolish enough to try anything against my gallery, or me then they will suffer. And maybe God will have mercy on them in the afterlife if they try anything against Irene."

"Should I take it that you've had problems before?" Joyce arched one eyebrow, certain that the expression looked more elegant on Emma.

"I have indeed," Misty's expression looked downright dangerous.

"Then I won't worry about these stalker people attacking you," Joyce smiled. "That's one thing off my mind. Now, there's a small company that wanted to know if they could purchase two dozen assorted sized paintings by that last artist to decorate their new office building. Do you want to talk to her, or can you point me towards the contact information for Indra Patil?"

End part 32.

While Joyce was off working at Mystique's art gallery, Emma Frost had started their plan to contact Phillip Mooreland. It had been a simple matter for her investigator to learn when he was normally working at his part time job, so she'd placed a call to his home this morning. She'd made the call from a public telephone near her corporate building, giving enough information to hopefully catch his interest without giving away too much. 'Phillip Mooreland, I'm calling about your other job, the one involving correspondence. I'd like to talk to you about it this afternoon. Meet me at one at the Café Oleander on 5th street, ask for Emma.'

The café wasn't one of her holdings. It didn't belong to a close friend. What she did know was that it was a frequent meeting place for dates and affairs, and due to that, nobody but the staff paid much attention to who was there or what was said. If they had an outside table, there would be enough privacy if they didn't shout, and it was public enough that he shouldn't be worried about some sort of kidnapping or assassination. Meeting at one in the afternoon, in an outdoor location should keep him from worrying too much about her being a vampire or demon as well…

Emma made sure that she was there early. Speaking to the host, she gave a small smile before offering, "Someone is supposed to be meeting me here in a little while. His name is Phillip, and he should be asking for Emma. Could I get an outdoor table for two?"

As the host smiled, murmuring that of course she could have an outdoor table and other such politenesses, Emma could hear him thinking about what he'd like to do if she were meeting him for lunch. That he doubted her name was really Emma, or that the man she would be meeting was named Phillip, though they were far better aliases than many that he'd heard.

Seated at an outdoor table with a glass of water, Emma sighed. "Some people make it hard to remember that lobotomies are illegal. Tempting, but illegal."

Phillip Mooreland arrived precisely at one, looking just dressed up enough that any casual observer would assume him to be meeting a lunch date and give the matter no more thought. He was radiating uncertainty and nervous tension, though very little of it showed, and the host was smirking as he led him to the table where Emma was waiting.

The pictures didn't really do his resemblance to David Bowie justice.

In a few moments, he was seated at the table in the sun, with his very own fresh cup of ice water, Emma's cup had been topped off, and they were left 'to look over their menus' in privacy.

"Were you the one who left me the message?" Phillip asked her, glancing at Emma over the menu.

"I did call you," she glanced at the menu, unimpressed by most of the offerings. Though there were a few that tempted her and she did need to eat something for lunch anyhow. "You were in regular contact with a man named Jeremy Claybourne, who caused a bit of a problem at my school."

"That hardly sounds like the best impression. I do hope you won't hold him against me?" Phillip paused, and then sighed, "What did he do?"

"He was stalking one of my students. Taking pictures of her when she was minding her own business. He attempted to take pictures of her in my school," Emma paused and sipped her water. She was curious how this one would react.

"Terribly rude of him," Phillip murmured. His mind was circling, wondering if this student was a possible Potential, or could be mistaken for the Slayer. Wondering how much this Emma knew, and if she was going to make trouble. Wondering just what else Jeremy the idiot was doing.

"I was upset at his voyeurism. She was most upset by his claims that she had to go fight monsters with a pointy stick. By his attitude that she was the rightful tool of his organization," Emma placed the water back on the table.

While his mind spun through an astonishing range of curses and profanity aimed at Claybourne, what actually emerged from Phillip's mouth was "I suppose such behavior would be very upsetting. I do apologize for any dismay he may have caused you and your student."

Emma waited until he wasn't drinking before she spoke again. "We were hoping that you might be a more reasonable member of this Council of Watchers."

Phillip Mooreland froze, his mind spinning through excuses and possible denials. There were also repeated thoughts best summarized as how does she know and does she have proof. What actually emerged from his lips was a simple, "Should I ask what causes you to associate me with such an organization?"

"I had Claybourne investigated. He received regular correspondence with the return address of the Council of Watchers. He also regularly met with you. Some of your behaviors are similar, though you are thankfully not spying on schoolgirls. It was quite the reasonable assumption," Emma admitted.

"This is where I'm supposed to spin an effective denial that any such organization exists and that I wouldn't belong to such a group if they did exist," he paused, sipped his water, and with a small grin said, "halfway plausible denial that you won't believe, feeble excuse, sputter, different excuse, hand-waving, oh look a distraction."

"A very credible effort," Emma fought not to smile. "But we both know better. Will you help us keep our Slayer reliably informed and prepared?"

"Now I can say that I attempted to convince the private citizen who isn't related to the Slayer that there was nothing to look into. An effort that failed due to you having prior information from said Slayer and Claybourne. I think this is a matter for further discussion. What did you have in mind for my role in this situation, and we can go from there," He offered, his mind filled with memories of fussy Senior Watchers and their words about keeping ordinary people out, about keeping and maintaining the secrecy of the Council, and his utter dislike of one of his instructors, a man named Travers. Part of his mind was already sketching out the report of this, though he would probably not release the details until his eventual – hopefully far off – demise.

"The first item on our list is that Buffy will keep and retain her basic rights, including dignity and privacy. You will treat her as a person, not as a weapon. No spying on her in locker rooms, bathrooms, or her bedroom. I can think of no reason for you to see her less than fully dressed," Emma gave him a mild glare.

"That sounds almost reasonable, except that some injuries require more than the standard hospital style treatment. A doctor or nurse won't be familiar with everything needed, or how to treat all sorts of demon venom or poisonous effects. It isn't that I want to see the girl half naked, but I don't want her to die because she wound up with a poisoned wound somewhere under her clothing and didn't get it properly treated," he glared right back at Emma.

As much as Emma wanted to insist that she had already arranged medical assistance, she could feel in his mind the memories of demon poisoned injuries. Feel the knowledge of books detailing the ugly deaths possible from demon-inflicted wounds. The awareness that some injuries needed to be treated with things that sounded more like a faerie tale than medicine. And the whole reason that she and Joyce were even considering bringing in one of these Watchers was that they didn't know enough about demons. "I suppose you have a valid argument."

"You mentioned that she is a student at your school. I suspect that you want her to continue to take classes, to have friends among the other students?" he shifted the subject away from voyeurism and injuries. "Has she considered the increased problems that would arise in a dating situation?"

"I do want her to remain in school, and to keep friends should she make them. She is a new arrival, and sometimes friendships are slow. As for dating…" Emma sighed, admitting, "That's a whole separate matter."

The discussion continued, with Emma explaining the demands and conditions that she and Joyce had decided on, conditions that they felt were very reasonable. Phillip Mooreland listened carefully, willingly agreeing to most of them. He had very logical arguments for the times that he didn't agree, such as the possible need for demon-aware medical treatments, and the possibility that her trainers didn't have the full range of weapons experience. This was countered by Emma's offhand remark that she could just hire another instructor in that case.

Phillip wasn't used to people just tossing money at problems like that. Most people simply didn't have that much money available.

"Of course, Buffy should have backup on her patrols. Skilled individuals who can help her fight the monsters," Emma murmured as she glanced at the desert list.

Phillip had opened his mouth, his mind insisting that such an idea wasn't traditional. Without insisting on tradition, he considered that for a few moments before his own comment, not quite an objection or a demand. "Most people are neither trained nor strong enough to fight demons and vampires."

"Properly trained and equipped, as well as gifted. A pair of mutants with abilities that are quite beneficial for the task," Emma countered.

His response was a quiet, "You do realize that I'm going to be concerned about any deviations from tradition until I see how well they work for myself?"

"Reasonable enough. You will soon understand that I don't do things without a reason, Mr. Mooreland," Emma lowered the menu.

"I think I can work with you, Ms. Frost. I am not devoted to tradition for the sake of tradition, but I do believe we should be careful about making changes until we can be sure that the new ideas will work," he smiled at her.

"There's nothing wrong with a little caution," Emma decided. "Welcome to the team."

End part 33.


	17. parts 34 and 35

Having finished her day at Misty's art gallery, Joyce was feeling much better. She knew that Emma was planning to have her talk with Mr. Mooreland, the probable Watcher. While there were all sorts of ways that talk could go, she had to trust Emma to manage things. She'd talked to Misty about the possibility that someone might attempt to put pressure on her by means of the gallery. Even though she hoped it was an unnecessary talk, that these Watchers wouldn't use such underhanded tactics, that her place of employment and her employer would be out of bounds for them, she'd rather not take that gamble. Misty's assurance that now that she was fore-warned, she would be just fine seemed… Joyce admitted that she might not have believed it except for the glimpses that she'd seen. When Misty had taken on a blue cast, when traces of someone far more dangerous than a simple art gallery owner had shown themselves. Traces of whatever Misty did that had Emma almost laughing at the idea of the woman selling stolen art works.

For that matter, it might not be a bad idea to see if she could figure out a way to mention the scary things out there to Misty. A way that didn't involve looking like a lunatic. She'd have to think on that a bit more, later. It wasn't something to approach lightly, and not something that would give her a second chance.

Traffic wasn't terrible, so she managed to get home before the girls were back from school. With pleasure, she kicked her shoes off along the hall, promising to put them properly in her closet later.

"No problems at the gallery, Joyce?" Emma's voice sounded pleased enough that her talk with Mr. Mooreland must have gone well enough.

"Misty assures me that she'll be able to handle anything that the lunatics stalking my daughter might pull, if they're rude enough to try anything against her gallery as leverage. She said if they go after the gallery, they'll probably live, they might live if they attack her, and she promises a horrible, painful demise that nobody will be able to prove happened if they so much as touch Irene." Joyce walked over to Emma and gave her a small kiss. "What about your day?"

"Business went as usual with the company. I think my new personal assistant will work out quite well, and there's the added benefit that visitors will completely underestimate her," Emma paused, with a faint smile. "The fact that she considers me a wonderful example of a successful business woman is an added benefit."

"Do I need to worry that you'll find her too pretty?" Joyce didn't like that nasty worry, and part of her hated Hank for causing it, hated Astrid for meddling enough that she'd stayed so long with Hank and his cheating ways. Of course, with Emma's telepathy, there was no point in keeping silent about that worry – Emma'd know anyhow.

Emma chuckled, "No, dear. She's pretty and cute in a way that makes her look five years younger than she really is, and what she'd really like in a date is a tall, dark haired man with an accent and a smoldering smile. Like a young Ricardo Montalbán without the wife."

"I can see the appeal of that," Joyce chuckled.

"Should I be jealous now?" Emma's teasing voice held no worry, and the fact that she'd wrapped her arms around Joyce only added to the fact that she felt no worry about her girlfriend leaving her.

"Admiring the youthful good looks and charming voice of an actor who's now forty years past that point and happily married is hardly a threat to you, darling. There have been many actors and musicians that have good looks, that doesn't mean I'd want to do more than look and smile. And you're never going to convince me that you've never looked and admired someone. Even someone that you had no intention of approaching," Joyce waved one finger towards Emma.

"Well, there's a bit of truth to that. And some people rather lose their charm when you're close enough to actually talk to them. But there have been a few that I've looked at from afar and enjoyed the view. But on a more practical note, Phillip Mooreland seems quite inclined to be reasonable. He'll be over on Thursday so that we can have a longer talk, and have him meet the girls. He did raise a few unwelcome but valid points on some of our issues…"

In a small apartment in a much less spacious and scenic part of town, Phillip Mooreland sighed. He'd had a lunch meeting with the woman who'd called him, a woman who'd made it tactfully clear that she knew things. Before the meeting, he'd tried to figure out who the woman could be, how she'd learned, and what to do about her. He'd hoped that bluster and confusion would work. When he'd first seen the woman – and what a woman! – he'd wondered about confusion, misdirection, and lustful distraction. The last would certainly have been honest, how anyone was supposed to think straight seeing a woman who looked like that dressed in clothing like she wore…

Shaking his head, he dragged his wandering thoughts back to the present. Back to the real issues. Due to Claybourne and his clumsy voyeuristic tendencies, Emma Frost knew about the Watchers Council. She knew that Buffy Summers was the Slayer, and had some sort of strong connection with the Slayer's mother. Emma Frost had decided to take an interest in the Slayer and her safety.

As much as he thought it was a wonderful idea, everything was quite overwhelming. The idea of giving a Slayer armor was excellent, and he wondered if anyone had tried it before. Or perhaps it had been judged too difficult to get a good set made in time in past centuries. Providing back-up for a patrolling Slayer, back-up beyond a healthy Watcher, was a novel idea. On the one hand, it made so much sense to have someone ready to watch her back, ready to help take out swarms and nests of vampires and demons. On the other hand, if the back-up wasn't capable enough in a fight, they could become distractions and liabilities. They could become secrecy risks. It completely flew in the face of tradition.

He had the feeling that Emma Frost defied tradition on a regular basis and had no intention of changing.

Considering his first encounter with Emma Frost and the comments that she'd made about what she'd already done for the Slayer, for Buffy, Phillip came to a few conclusions. "I don't think she's doing this because the girl's the Slayer. She's not going to change her approach because the Council has centuries of tradition and won't like it. I have no idea what she'll come up with next, and no idea if the Slayer's mother is just like her or in some way more confusing."

He didn't think there had ever been a situation like this with a Slayer. A Slayer with a strong protector, with money, influence and political savvy. A Slayer with a protector with options besides the Council. A Slayer and protector who viewed the Council as possibly useful instead of necessary.

Phillip Mooreland wondered if he could get reinforcements to preserve his sanity while dealing with these women.

End part 34.

The next few days were a study in contrast. Joyce continued her work at Misty's gallery, documenting sales and arranging contact with previous artists, finalizing the details for the showing of Irene's work. Misty didn't offer any details about what measures and preparations might be in place for possible intruders, but the woman's confidence kept Joyce from asking. Perhaps it was best if she didn't know.

Buffy had been frustrated with her French and Math homework, annoyed by a paper for English, and delighted by a couple football players flirting with her. Neither of them had quite asked her out, or if they had, Buffy hadn't mentioned that part. But the attention had made Buffy's day a little brighter. Unfortunately, that bright spot was diminished by a pair of track members being attacked by 'an ugly dog-monster' while they were jogging before school. Neither had been killed, but what they'd described had been a beast that looked rather like a Great Dane, if said dog were covered with grey-green scales, had solid hued pale eyes, and double rows of yellowed teeth. Both had been helped down from the outdoor stands and sent for medical treatment.

The image that Emma had taken from their minds was definitely not the 'stray dog' that they'd mentioned to the Emergency Medical Technicians that had taken them away. Buffy had wanted to track the beast down immediately, but Emma had convinced her to wait until later, when she'd have armor and better weapons than a bag full of textbooks.

Buffy's quip that 'blunt trauma was generally useful for killing nasties' hadn't helped, though it had been worth a few laughs.

As Buffy, now with several concealed weapons and armor under her clothing, left with Jem and Ashe, Joyce tried not to let her worries show.

"She has weapons, armor and back-up. Trust your daughter, Joyce," Emma's low voice wouldn't have carried to the departing people, even with Buffy's slayer-sharp senses.

"Emma, the images that you lifted… This thing is like a dog. It acted rather like an angry dog, it's built mostly like a dog. It didn't look bony and hungry enough to be a stray," Joyce paused, reminding herself that the armor was very thoroughly tested, and there was medical help if any of them might be injured.

"All three of them are up to date on their shots," Emma paused. "What about the fact that it's some sort of evil dog?"

Joyce took a breath, and whispered, "Dogs, evil or not, scaly or not, are still dogs. Dogs can't open doors, Emma. Something else had to let it into the locker room. What happens when they find the dog's owner?"

Emma's worried expression didn't make Joyce feel any better.

Maybe it was a good thing that they'd have a reasonable Watcher on board with things soon.

Across the country, the vampire now answering to Angel stared at the walls of the basement apartment that the demon Whistler had arranged for him. Whistler had claimed that he was a messenger from the Powers That Be, which his description suggested was rather like God, or perhaps just a step or two below God. That these Powers had plans for the future, and wanted him to help one of their Champions.

He could still remember the details of that afternoon. Whistler had a van with ugly, blackened windows and had taken him to a city, pulling up near a large school before telling him to look out the door. Peering into the eye-wateringly bright sunlight, Angel had seen a pair of pretty girls sitting on the steps, both in short red and white outfits. One of them had hair as golden as the sunlight.

"You see that girl? The blonde?" Whistler had gestured at the girl, his words somber. "She doesn't know it yet, but her Destiny's big. She's going to be a Champion, a fighter to save people from things that most have never even imagined."

"She looks about as dangerous as a wet kitten," Angel had countered. While pretty, she had been delicate, and dressed in what he knew to be a cheerleader's uniform. While he wasn't an expert on modern human behavior, he knew enough to know that cheerleaders were considered decoration – they encouraged and were popular. They didn't fight, they didn't bring honor and favorable reputations to their school, television and movies often portrayed them as not too bright and of rather limber morals and bodies… But looks could be deceiving, after all, look at Darla, or Drusilla.

"She's going to be the next Slayer."

Angel had twisted to look at Whistler, his mind spinning at the idea. That girl, a Slayer? If that was true, then she was far more dangerous than she looked, or at least, she would be soon. Of course, there was one little problem. "In case you're forgetting, I'm a vampire. Slayers don't like vampires, in fact, they tend to slay them. That's why they're called Slayers, not amazons, or wood nymphs. What's to keep her from turning me into a dusty heap of ashes?"

"I'm sure that a clever guy like you can find a way," Whistler had countered.

Whistler had explained that she'd be in Sunnydale soon. That she would have many challenges in the town, and had to keep 'the Mouth' from being opened or used. A couple repetitions of how important it was that Angel help that girl, and one half furnished basement later, and Whistler had vanished.

"She isn't here," Angel remembered the blond that Whistler had called the soon-to-be Slayer. While there were a good number of pretty blondes in Sunnydale, none of them were that girl. "And it would be much easier to try to find her if I had a name."

Whistler had seemed very focused on the many dangers that the Slayer would face in Sunnydale. Dangers that she wasn't here to fight. Dangers that wouldn't just go away without her.

Angel's hand reached out, his fingers tracing the edge of the sword that he'd liberated from an old demon nest. "The Slayer isn't here, but the dangers are. And I'm here."

Someone needed to keep the pretty blondes and the children safe. To reduce the chance that the young people out dancing and walking and having sex in poorly chosen locations wouldn't get eaten. He also remembered something from his mortal days, a few words that a priest had once told him. "Repenting is all well and good, but acts of penance and atonement can do more good on this earth."

He'd spent enough time fasting and wandering without home or possessions. Angel might not be the Slayer, but he could remove some of those dangers. Perhaps it was a fitting penance for those dark years, before the gypsies had thrust his soul, with morals and guilt, back into him.

Sunnydale had lots of demons and vampires that a vampire seeking atonement could kill. Maybe that would keep the Slayer from turning him into a heap of ashes when she showed up in this miserable town.

End part 35.


	18. parts 36 to 38

Joyce didn't know if Emma had originally scheduled her appointments and then not changed them after arranging to meet with the Watcher, or if she'd changed them to keep her busy before the meeting. Either way, she didn't have much free time for fretting and fidgeting. Instead, she had an appointment with one of Emma's lawyers to make a new will, one that took her divorce and relocation into consideration. Hank no longer received custody of the girls, or of any of her possessions, or any money that she might accumulate. There had also been an evaluation with Emma's personal trainer, who had promised to develop an exercise program, one that would be compatible with her impending martial arts lessons. While Emma had also murmured something about gun lessons, so far nothing had been scheduled to Joyce's knowledge. As much as she'd like to have nothing to do with guns, there might be some sense in using a gun against super-strong monsters.

This didn't even take into account the need to find a new dress for Irene's showing. After five hours and dozens of little boutiques, Emma had talked her into this lovely blue number, a dress that Emma hadn't let her see the price tag for, or the receipt. After all, the dress fit wonderfully, and Emma had more money than she could spend, why should Joyce worry about such things? And what good was all that money if Emma couldn't buy her girlfriend a present or two on occasion? Logic could be dangerous in Emma's hands, or lips, as the case may be.

"So, what time is the Watcher supposed to be here, and are we sure that having him in your home is wise?" Joyce asked Emma as she put together some sandwiches.

"Six, and I'm fairly certain that he can't cause any more problems meeting here than if we meet anywhere else," Emma replied.

Joyce sighed, wondering why Emma's answer didn't do more to reassure her. Oh yes, it was because the man could still cause plenty of problems here. "And him meeting the girls is a good idea?"

"The perverted stalker was certain that Slayers should be alone, with nobody to care about them, nobody but their Watcher to protect them, and certainly no family. It's best to make certain that this one knows right away that Buffy has a family and will remain part of a family. And if he can't cope with or behave around a family, then he has to go," Emma insisted.

She suspected that Emma would help the man leave or even something more final if needed. Joyce decided to dwell on concerns about this upcoming meeting, rather than letting her mind wander along the various awful avenues of a Slayer – a teenage girl – with only one person, some significantly older man who had been trained in observation, perhaps even voyeuristic observation. Perhaps even only the Watcher knowing who the Slayer was, where she was, her only contact with the rest of the world other than violence… No, best worry about sandwiches to snack on, if the girls had made any progress on their homework, if they would remember to behave at dinner.

"And the reason why we aren't having him meet Jem and Ash?" Joyce prompted.

"Neither of them know the extent of my abilities, and I'd rather they not learn that I can alter the man's memories if necessary. And on the remote chance that he's both awful and resistant to my telepathic tampering – which is unlikely, but possible – then we have two capable individuals working for us that he can't identify," Emma gave Joyce a little smile, and flipped a lock of hair out of her face, "It will be all right. One way or another."

Joyce smiled back, feeling much less confident. "I hope you're right, Emma."

"Of course I'm right."

Phillip Mooreland stepped out of the taxicab with a murmur of thanks for the ride, handing over a little more than the required fare. Wrapped in plain brown paper, he carried a copy of one of the Watcher's basic texts on demons under his arm. Good manners suggested that a guest brought his hostess a gift, and as he well knew that Emma Frost could afford to buy herself any ordinary object or service she might desire, only exotic things would be of benefit. A small sample of the knowledge that he had available seemed like the best offering at this time. He wouldn't be able to repeat his words to the cab driver if asked, but there were times when years of training and practice of 'appropriate manners' could cover many things. Nervousness, anger, fear, pain… awe.

The home of Emma Frost was a beautiful, sprawling mansion covered in pale stone, with rising Corinthian columns at the front of the large porch. The grounds were manicured, with an assortment of neatly trimmed shrubberies, many of them sporting white blossoms. A gentle breeze carried the scents of damp grass, roses, and juniper. Everything spoke of elegance, money, power and the habit of being listened to when speaking to someone.

It told him to be very cautious in his actions and words. This property spoke of old money, old power. Old money also meant a degree of ruthlessness, of shrewd observations and practice at reading and manipulating people. The woman who owned and commanded all of this had become a guardian, formal and legal or not, of the Slayer. As an American, she wouldn't have the ingrained habits and traditions that he was most familiar with using. And there would be no subtle respect for the Council – if anything, Claybourne would have put him and the whole Council at a serious disadvantage.

This would be a very important meeting, and not one that would by any stretch of the imagination be considered 'easy'. He couldn't ruin this chance, because Emma Frost not only didn't give the impression of being forgiving and generous with second chances, her reputation backed up that impression. He'd done a bit of research on her after that lunch meeting, not wanting to be as uninformed during his second meeting as he had been at their first.

Her reputation was every bit as ruthless as the most skilled master vampire, though a good deal less violent. In fact, nobody could prove that Emma Frost had ever done anything technically illegal. Not that it lessened the misery of those who had crossed her – she had the money, connections and ruthlessness to leave them penniless, unemployed, and their reputations in tatters. A fate much worse than mere death for many people.

He wasn't the least bit surprised that the door was opened by a servant, a fairly unremarkable looking fellow. Perhaps mid-thirties, brown eyes, dark brown hair, signs of moderate exercise… he wouldn't be surprised if the man had some measure of combat training in case of unfriendly visitors. Drawing on manners to cover his uncertainty, he offered, "My name is Phillip Mooreland, Ms. Frost requested my presence tonight at six."

With a small frown, the man gestured for him to enter the building, "I was told to expect company this evening."

Phillip was led through the house, the interior as elegant and expensive as the outside. The servant brought him to a sitting room, decorated in pale wood paneling and furniture, with white and pale green fabrics. He knew that he'd feel worried about staining things if he spent much time in this room, a worry that might leave him off balance and awkward… which could well be the whole idea.

"Please wait here," the servant, who still hadn't introduced himself, murmured before leaving the room.

Phillip didn't quite feel confident enough to sit on any of the furniture, so he drifted around the room, looking at a variety of decorative objects. Some of them, like the silver edged oval mirror, were merely a part of the décor, while the delicate pale wooden carving of nested wooden balls was at least far more intricate. It could have been something collected on a journey, or a gift, or simply a more expensive and delicate bit of decorating. Knowing when and how it had been acquired might have told him something useful about Ms. Frost.

"I do hope that you haven't been waiting very long," the cultured tones of Ms. Frost, while carrying an American accent, would not have been out of place in an old British manor. Her words and tone were polite, but made it clear that this was her territory, where she made the rules. He was a guest, permitted only so long as he did not make a nuisance of himself.

Phillip turned to look at her, unsurprised at the fact that she was clad entirely in white. The blouse looked to be made of white lace, and a part of him very much wanted to take a closer look to see what she might or might not be wearing beneath it. She had a white skirt that went to her knees, something that would have looked quite conservative if not for the off center slit that ran to her upper left thigh, and strappy white heels. Her appearance was the beautiful ice woman who wasn't quite touchable but was oh so tempting. Her reputation made it clear that Emma Frost _always_ wore white, and nobody bent her to their will.

With a smile and half bow, Phillip held out the book and murmured, "I haven't been waiting long at all, Ms. Frost."

Accepting the book with a small smile, she spoke again, "Come this way. Joyce persuaded me that there are more comfortable rooms for our chat."

Following her from the room, Phillip had two main thoughts. The first was that it would be a pleasure to follow a woman like this anywhere, even to certain doom – the view would almost be worth it. The second was to wonder about Joyce, and exactly what influence she held over Emma Frost.

End part 36.

Joyce smiled when Emma sauntered into the room, Phillip Mooreland in his grey suit looking very David Bowie-like as he followed her. She had no doubts that Emma had another admirer, at least for the short term. "Hello, Mr. Mooreland. Emma told me how your talk the other afternoon went, and I must say that you sound a good deal more reasonable than that other person."

He murmured, "I have heard more than a few rumors of Claybourne possessing several lackluster traits, and a few personal failings. He was several years ahead of me through the Watcher training, and did clash several times with a cousin of mine concerning a variety of petty issues that I tended to dismiss. Mostly because they were of an age where one's tastes in music and beer are of greater importance than other issues. As Claybourne was never a close acquaintance, I was not in a position to either be certain of the truth of these rumors or to have any significant form of influence over his behavior. Nonetheless, I do apologize, on behalf of the Council, for any dismay or concern that he may have caused you and your family."

Phillip Mooreland paused for a few moments with a thoughtful expression before asking, "You are Joyce Summers, mother of the current Slayer?"

"I am Joyce Summers, mother of Buffy Summers, who has recently had people calling her a Slayer and telling her she needs to go fight monsters. I still want more information on what makes anyone think that Buffy is this Slayer, why my daughter, and just what has been done by your Council to help her," Joyce frowned, reminding herself not to rant at him just yet. "I also have a younger daughter, Dawn."

"I do apologize if I have given offense. My understanding is that the Head of the Council announced that the current Slayer, identified to field Watchers as Buffy Summers, was moving to a town in California – the name was something like Sunnyvale. The very limited information provided about Buffy Summers did not mention her having a younger sister," he paused, a look of mild embarrassment briefly appearing before fading back to a polite blankness. "I fear that it only mentioned the names of her parents, and did not include pictures, while there was a photograph of Buffy. I suspect that it was based on an organized annual school photograph."

"Why would the Head of the Council be claiming that we would be going there?" Joyce looked at him. The name didn't sound familiar to her at all. Then again, she hadn't even looked for other places in California to move, she'd just called Emma. Maybe if she hadn't called Emma, then she would have started looking for other places to live, probably places less expensive than Los Angeles. But that still didn't explain why, of all the places in California, she would have gone to somewhere called Sunnyvale, or whatever the name might actually be.

Phillip Mooreland opened his mouth, but paused without actually speaking. He then closed his mouth and was silent for a few moments before admitting, "I simply assumed that he had been given some sort of information leading to that conclusion. Field Watchers are supposed to give regular updates about demon movements, organized vampire activities, and the major activities of an active Slayer. Historical precedent suggests that the most likely information source would be the previous Watcher informing the Council of an intent to move to this other town, probably either declared by you as the custodial parent or from a Slayer intending to separate from her family."

"Buffy told me that the Watcher she had in Los Angeles was killed," Emma's voice was calm. "This makes it far less likely that he would be reporting such claims to anyone. Unless your Council regularly receives updates from deceased members?"

"I don't think that I've even heard the name of the town before. I certainly wasn't planning on moving there," Joyce shook her head. "Perhaps that's a question for later. Could you please explain to me why several members of your Council believe my daughter to be this Chosen Slayer?"

"From your phrasing, I shall take the question to mean that you aren't entirely convinced, and want more information, rather than interpreting it as a suggestion that the Council are all crazed stalkers." Phillip Mooreland paused, before admitting, "It does sound rather implausible at first, that a young woman can have that much sitting on her shoulders."

"That's one way to describe it." Joyce murmured, before adding in a normal voice "Do sit down, I have the feeling that this might be a long explanation."

"The Council has existed in its present form for close to six hundred years, but there are records that indicate it was based on an older organization, or perhaps several older systems. The ones most often mentioned in the records are described as a secretive order within the Roman Catholic Church, intended to protect humanity from demons, often supporting a chosen and blessed warrior, always a young woman. There are also records of a semi-religious sect that operated during the Roman Empire, one that held Mars and Diana as their patron deities. That group was also described as helping and supporting a warrior woman, empowered by the gods. Some of the foreign texts that we've found and translated mention similar groups among pre-British conquest India, and in ancient Greece there were both stories of Amazons and tales of women blessed by Artemis, there are mentions of warrior women of incredible strength among ancient Mesopotamian cultures. Wherever the stories are from, they all speak of powerful women warriors fighting against the demons of their culture, against unspeakable dangers. While I haven't been able to make such studies myself, I strongly suspect that there would be similar stories from the Far East. The point of all of this is to make it clear that the idea of a Slayer, someone chosen and empowered, is not a new thing, not something that the Council I belong to created," he explained.

"From what you've just said, it sounds like a very old idea. One that was probably handled differently in each place," Joyce admitted. What he said might explain some of the ancient art that she'd seen in museums and textbooks. Murals and mosaics of small figures with weapons, of women and monsters where the women weren't cowering in fear or being rescued by an armored man appropriate to the time.

"As much as I would be delighted to learn of more, everything I've seen suggests that there is only one Slayer at a time, only one in the whole world. When one Slayer dies, another is Chosen, is given the power. Before you ask, I am not aware of what chooses this one instead of that one, though there is speculation that a new Slayer will always be in a place where there is need of a defender against monsters."

Joyce caught Emma's small nod, and the words slipped into her mind – He's telling the truth about not knowing how or why one girl is chosen instead of another. That doesn't mean that someone else might know, but he's been honest to the best of his knowledge thus far.

"Which means that you don't know why Buffy would be the Slayer instead of someone else. But how do you identify who the Slayer is, especially if you don't know who or where in advance?" Joyce asked.

Starting to make a gesture, Phillip Mooreland seemed to remember the brown-wrapped shape in his hands. Turning towards Emma, he held the package towards her, "A gift for my hostess. While I do admit that it isn't pleasant reading, this is a copy of one of the basic compendiums of demons. It contains descriptions with artists' renderings, an explanation of their habitat and normal behavior, and the important parts – warnings of any special powers or poisons, and the details of how they may be killed. Unfortunately, there are many more demons and dangers than those covered in this book, but it should begin to give you an understanding of some of the less widely known dangers of this world."

"I'm sure that it will be appreciated. One of our biggest objections to this mess is that Claybourne expected to simply be able to run everything, as he would be and remain the only one who knew what was going on," Emma accepted the package.

"The strategy seems fairly direct…" with a shake of his head, Phillip added, "But it would cause problems in the longer term. Especially if he didn't build some sort of trust or good-will."

"You almost sound as if you approve of such a strategy, in the short term." Emma's words held the emotionless chill that Joyce recognized as Emma discussing unpleasant associates at work.

"Ms. Frost, with your experience in matters corporate and educational, I am certain that you have encountered strategies that, while effective, were not pleasant. You must also have encountered people who were willing to sacrifice the longer term benefits for short term results." Phillip Mooreland paused long enough for Emma to nod. "Too often, with a Slayer, there is no longer term. Some have only served as a Slayer for a few months. After the demise of a Slayer, her field Watcher is generally recalled to the Council Headquarters, with a notice sent out to all areas that the Slayer has fallen. Said Watcher may or may not return to fieldwork after a thorough debriefing. Which means that the longer term wouldn't matter to some Watchers. Many feel that the short term is sufficient, because in the longer term, there will always be a Slayer. Somewhere."

"I have encountered such ruthless individuals before," Emma's voice was still cold. "Do you share such strategies?"

With a sigh, he explained, "Ladies, I am a firm believer that experience in any sort of position is generally a benefit. Someone who has held a position for a year will be more aware of the best methods than someone who just started. A person with experience in fighting and tracking will be more capable than someone who is only now starting to apply those lessons to real life situations. Barring disaster, I believe that it would be best, once a Slayer is identified and located, to keep her alive and well, suitably equipped and informed. That experience would permit her to identify potential problems before they become large problems. While you have some different ideas that you have suggested to accomplish this, you aren't suggesting that she not be suitably prepared for her calling."

"You still haven't explained why you and the rest of your Council believe that Buffy is the Slayer," Joyce prompted.

"There are field Watchers scattered across many nations, in most major cities and some smaller ones. One aspect of our duties includes watching for signs suggesting that a girl has a stronger potential to become a Slayer – I can explain those signs later, if you wish. If circumstances permit, a field Watcher is encouraged to arrange such girls to have some sort of training in martial arts, weapons skills, even languages. Part of a field Watcher's responsibilities includes being alert for any of those girls with high potential to begin to show increased physical abilities, strange dreams, changes in behavior. Other signs are changes in the way that supernatural creatures react to her. Most aren't in a suitable position to identify changes in sleeping patterns, though that is a sign to look for. If such signs are noted, then," he paused, taking a slow breath before speaking again. "Then the field Watcher is supposed to compare the onset of the changes with the time of the last Slayer's death. If they match…"

"What about mutants? Are you certain that a physically gifted mutant might not create a false positive for these signs?" Emma's voice was still calm, but not quite as cold.

"What I've explained are the established traditions. I doubt that there has been any effort to revise them to take into account mutants, which seem to be a relatively new phenomenon. Most likely, while the increases in physical ability might match and there could easily be changes in behavior and sleep patterns, since my understanding is that mutant abilities sometimes manifest in the early teenage years, a genetic mutation becoming active shouldn't change the way the supernatural reacts to someone," he offered.

"Well that bites," Buffy's voice came from the doorway. "Mutants generally have a longer life than active Slayers."

End part 37.

Joyce sighed, "Buffy. You weren't supposed to be here just yet. But you might as well come in and sit down – Dawn as well. This is Philip Mooreland, who is a Watcher."

"Do I really need one? The last was a creepy stalker guy," Buffy frowned as she walked into the room.

"I can hire trainers and buy weapons and armor. What he can offer is knowledge of demons and other unwelcome surprises that your patrols might uncover. That is why we're speaking to him," Emma countered.

"Miss Summers… all the Summers ladies and Ms. Frost, I do hope to avoid becoming a… creepy stalker guy, you said?" Phillip Mooreland spoke, his eyes moving from Buffy to Joyce to Dawn and finally resting on Emma.

"But here you are," Buffy sighed, dropping into a chair.

Joyce watched as Dawn also slipped into the room, taking a seat in one of the other chairs. Dawn's position in the room permitted a good view of everyone, but kept her out of the way. Noting the fact that Dawn sat in the chair with good posture and at least the appearance of dignity – a sharp contrast to Buffy's casual slouched flop – she couldn't quite decide if she was proud of Dawn growing to become such a well mannered young lady or dismayed by Buffy's casual indifference. Unless Buffy's posture was not so much indifference as misdirection… best try to learn that later.

"Miss Summers, do you mind terribly if I call you Buffy? It might cut down on the confusion," Phillip Mooreland began.

"Go ahead," Buffy agreed with a half smile.

"Very well. Buffy, you are the Slayer, something that you have been aware of for several months. This will not change if you lack a Watcher. The only thing that lacking a Watcher will change is the amount of information and training available to help determine what has been encountered, what those encounters mean, and what should be done about them. There are also several types of demons that possess venom and other less obvious attacks than brute strength, claws, sharp teeth and spines. A Slayer is much safer if someone is available to assist with such injuries, and in identifying which of several similar looking species a demon might be, especially when not all species may be killed in the same manner. I have been invited here to see if I would be an acceptable Watcher, as unlike the normal situation, you have these two ladies," he gestured towards Joyce and Emma, "who are determined that you will be as safe and well prepared as possible, with only the best people assisting you. You could consider this my job interview, one where it is to be decided if I have the right personality and attitude to fit with the team that Ms. Frost is assembling."

Buffy sighed, "I still think I'd live longer as a mutant."

"I do not consider myself an expert on mutants, but you do seem rather depressed about your future as a Slayer," he leaned back in his chair. "Should I ask what you've been told about previous Slayers?"

"They were Called, the fought, they died. What more do I need to know?" Buffy raked her fingers through her hair, before adding, "I might as well not bother making plans for the rest of my life, because it's going to be short and ugly."

"Buffy," Joyce shook her head, hoping that her daughter was only trying to provoke Mr. Mooreland instead of bordering on depression.

"The Slayer that was Called in 1573 served for twelve years before her demise, and that was due to illness, not demons or vampires. The Slayer Called in 1792 fought for eight years, and according to the records, she died as a complication of childbirth. While the records do suggest that her Watcher as well as the rest of the Council were not pleased, she clearly did not permit her Calling to remove all chance of having a life. While the rest of your life will not be the same as whatever you may have envisioned when you were twelve, or fourteen, that doesn't mean that your life is over. Medicine has improved greatly, and while you might be a bit young to consider having children, there are also safer ways to go about such things in this time." It was obvious that Phillip Mooreland did not approve of Buffy's dismayed and uninterested tone.

"What safer ways do you have in mind?" Emma sounded curious.

"Records and oral tradition indicate that demons and vampires are able to sense a Slayer, and that most react violently. Pregnant women are not in their best condition for a physical fight. Modern medicine being what it is, I would suggest that if Buffy wishes to have children, it might be best to use a surrogate mother. Of course, such matters could wait a while, as she is only… fifteen? Nearing sixteen?" he glanced towards Buffy and then to Joyce.

"Almost sixteen," Buffy insisted, looking a bit less unhappy. "Twelve years? Do you know of any others who come close to ten or so years?"

"We believe that the Watchers Council is partly based on, or at least continuing the tradition of an old Roman order. I have only seen a few bits of information about that Roman order, but there was a record of a warrior, called 'the Daughter of Mars, Favored of Diana' who had been irritating a local governor for over a decade. I strongly suspect organizations similar to the Watchers Council existed or may still exist in India, the Far East, and perhaps parts of Africa and South America. I have no reason to believe that with proper support and caution, you couldn't easily see a decade or more. While it wouldn't be easy, your future will be much longer if you remain certain that you have a future."

"Because giving up means that you've already lost," Buffy murmured.

"Exactly," he smiled at her.

Joyce smiled at Emma, feeling much better about bringing Phillip Mooreland into their group now.

"So, where do you keep your goblins?" Dawn grinned.

With a heavy sigh and a hand over his face, "I am not Jareth the Goblin King. I am not David Bowie. I do not have a musical career."

Dawn and Buffy both giggled. Joyce found herself smiling as well, and glanced over to see Emma's own smile. Clearly, they weren't the only ones to notice the resemblance.

End part 38.


	19. parts 39 and 40

Over the next few days, Buffy continued figuring out what 'normal patrols' with Jem and Ash would be like – where they would start, areas to cover, and how long would be a good patrol. She explained to them a bit about basic vampire killing, while admitting that beheading and fire were both good tactics that worked on most nasties. Joyce kept trying to calm down about her little girl out chasing monsters. And Phillip Mooreland was looking through his books and other sources for that scaly dog, and clues about what sort of person or monster might have such a beast.

He'd quite agreed that such a creature, which he said would be one of three possible types of demonic beast, was of no more than animal intelligence. That such a beast being well-fed indicated it was under someone's control and guidance. That where there was a demon-dog being let into rooms, there was someone with vicious plans opening doors. He'd identified the types of demon-dog, with dreadful sounding names, and explained that they were most often used as guards and fast moving assassins by minor mages.

That had prompted a whole night of unhappy questions and answers. Magic, spells, artifacts, and the known limits of the whole batch. Magic spells to call things up from beyond, and how to send those things back. Which had led to more denials of being the Goblin King or having goblin minions. Joyce was starting to suspect that Dawn kept making the comments just to see him get flustered and deny the whole thing.

The down side was that the particular type of demon dog that he'd concluded was the most likely to be the one attacking, based on the description he'd been given wasn't vulnerable to fire. The scales would make slicing and stabbing more difficult, but not impossible. Blunt force or precision attacks with a very sharp blade were the best bet, as they didn't have access to a skilled mage to send the beast home, or any easily portable powerful sources of cold.

Joyce was quite amused at the way Dawn kept teasing Phillip about goblin minions. They were starting to think that they might want to introduce Phillip to Jem and Ash, just to make reports and researching easier. The fact that the pair of them would probably join in on the teasing him about goblin minions would only make it more amusing to the ladies Summers.

All in all, Joyce thought that Phillip was doing quite well with their group. He did ask a good deal more question than either she or Emma, and some of them were things that wouldn't have occurred to her. Joyce wouldn't have ever considered that it could make a difference if a large scaly demon had red or yellow scales. According to Phillip, it made a very big difference – the yellow ones were highly venomous, while the red ones would only leave you feeling wobbly and with blurry or doubled vision. Not that wobbly and vision problems was a good thing, but it was s good deal better than convulsions, vomiting, and death within a maximum of ten minutes.

That was the sort of thing that made a Watcher useful.

Joyce hadn't been sure when they'd brought him in. She'd been worried, partly because of Claybourne and partly from all of the stress and fear that Buffy had been carrying around. Words like duty and destiny and dead before eighteen, and complaints about knowing more ways that people could get mauled to death than the whole family had sets of shoes. A rather sleepless night had resulted in Joyce learning that the family – herself, Emma, Dawn and Buffy – totaled one hundred and thirteen pairs of shoes. That was a lot of ugly ways to die. She had also spent a few minutes rather half-heartedly blaming Emma for pointing her towards this fabulous shoe store, and having her assistant take Buffy there for 'retail therapy'. Twice.

That afternoon Buffy came home from school, still complaining about a quiz in French and a report assigned for History. Apparently, there had been more than a few questions about French geography on the quiz, and Buffy didn't think that was quite fair.

"Why wouldn't the questions be in French for a French quiz? It helps them check your reading ability as well as how much attention you were paying to cities and crops," Joyce smiled at her daughter. "And do remember that France is on metric."

"Stupid metric. Why can't they use feet and inches like the rest of the world?" Buffy grumbled.

"Most of the world uses metric," Joyce pointed out. "America is just stubborn."

"I guess we're good at that," Buffy managed a grin. "But I think I did bad on the quiz."

"Back in California, this is when I'd be asking you what could be so important that you couldn't study, you'd make a few bad excuses to hide your patrols, I'd assume that you were trying to cover up parties and a boyfriend that I wouldn't like, and I'd move on to grounding you," Joyce sighed. "In some ways, I worried a lot less when I thought you were sneaking out with boys and parties. Other times I think I worried more."

"How could you be worrying less now than you did before?" Buffy blinked, her nose wrinkling. "That doesn't even make sense – oh, hunting monsters with a pointy stick? Much better, do carry on…"

"It doesn't sound the same without Phillip's accent," Joyce commented.

"I guess not. And speaking of him, I want him to meet Jem and Ash. Then he can ask them the bazillion questions about all the baddies," Buffy gave a half grin. "And I still don't know how that can be an improvement."

"Because fighting demons isn't likely to leave you in the emergency room from a drug overdose or trying to tell me that I'm going to become a grandmother before you've even graduated from high school," Joyce looked at her daughter with one raised eyebrow. "Or do you think that I've forgotten that football player with the grabby hands?"

"Ummm…" Buffy tried to look innocent, and looked closer to confused. "Okay, there were a few bad boyfriends back in LA."

"Which is why I worry about you picking up a bad one here," Joyce sighed.

"I guess I can see your point," Buffy admitted. Then, she grinned and asked, "How long do you think it'll take for Jem and Ash to start teasing Phillip about goblin minions?"

Joyce only laughed.

End part 39.

Joyce decided that she'd rather tell Emma about Buffy's desire to introduce the rest of her team to Phillip herself, rather than let her be surprised later. If Emma had a good reason to delay the introductions, then she could explain to all of them why not. Joyce suspected that Emma might have done at least a little snooping, not just with the investigator, but probably snooped a bit into his mind. The idea didn't bother her as much as it would if they weren't trusting this man with Buffy's life. Joyce couldn't help but wonder if it was a matter of ethical weakness that she felt invading his privacy was acceptable, or it if was a very strong desire to protect her daughter.

"Why are you questioning your ethics, darling?" Emma's question from the office suggested that she was more than ready for a break from whatever was on her computer.

"Regarding the fact that you've probably been peeking into Phillip's mind," Joyce clarified. "Considering the influence he has over Buffy's safety, I'm rather unconcerned with his right to privacy. Hence the doubts over my ethics."

"You worry too much. You have one of the strongest sets of ethics of anyone I know, and the only thing that I can imagine that would even make you think about crossing those lines would be a threat to one of your daughters." Emma left her chair, sauntering towards Joyce. Without the jacket, the white corset and skirt split up to her thigh made a very tempting picture.

Emma smiled at Joyce, "Thanks for the compliment. And no, there really isn't a way to wear a bra under one of these corsets."

"That doesn't help with the temptation," Joyce smiled.

"Why resist?" Emma leaned closer, her breath against Joyce's cheek. "Indulge a little… I promise that it'll be fun."

"Before you thoroughly distract me with your sensual ways and naughty ideas, Buffy wants to introduce the rest of her team to Phillip. I thought if you knew ahead of time then if there's a reason not to introduce them other than keeping secrets, you could share." Joyce took the single step that left her pressed against Emma. "And she thinks that they'll have fun teasing him about where his goblin minions might be as well."

Emma chuckled, "They probably will."

"As I said, do we have a reason to delay?" Joyce asked. "Other than your enjoyment of knowing things that someone else doesn't know?"

"Amusing as knowing a secret can be, I suppose we can introduce them. Then we can watch the teasing about goblin minions," Emma smirked. "Now about those tempting ideas of yours…"

Kissing her girlfriend, Joyce decided that giving in to temptation once in a while could be a very enjoyable thing. Especially when that temptation involved Emma.

Buffy had been delighted to have her mom and Emma's approval to introduce her back-up to Phillip. Joyce suspected that their dismay or outright disapproval might not have stopped her, but it did make things less tense if there was agreement. And she was glad that Buffy had stopped objecting quite so much about Emma being her girlfriend. That had given her more than a few headaches.

"Which of them do you think will start it?" Emma whispered.

Joyce smirked, confident that at least part of Emma's motives for permitting the introductions would be watching the newest round of tease the Watcher. "A good question. I have two prime suspects."

"Is one of them Buffy?" Emma suggested.

"No. Dawn or Jem. Buffy wants to watch the others tease him as a sign that it isn't just her," Joyce countered.

"And what if I'm right?" Emma purred.

Joyce let her mind picture a rather tempting scene involving Emma, a white silk scarf used as a blindfold, and a bowl of whipped cream. "I have a few ideas."

Emma smiled, her cheeks turning a faint pink. "Interesting. I'll hold you to that if I'm right. And if you are, we'll try that one with the chocolate sauce and the feather."

"Ohhh, you naughty woman," Joyce whispered.

Joyce tried to push the naughty images back as they walked towards the study where Buffy, Jem and Ash were supposed to be waiting. She wasn't surprised to see Dawn there as well, sitting on a table and kicking her feet while pretending to read a book.

"Time to see how this goes," Emma murmured.

End part 40.


	20. part 41

Phillip arrived a bit before six, laden with thick, leather-bound books. Emma's staff escorted him to the study that was slowly becoming the center for Slayer or demon related research, and left him to settle in. They'd also promised him a nice pot of tea. He waved a polite greeting towards Dawn, who was attempting to wait quietly, grinning the whole time, even as she did call out, "Hello goblin Watcher."

Joyce, Emma and Buffy arrived at almost the same time, caught up in a discussion about the widespread use and relative merits of the metric measuring system, with tangents onto European sizing for clothing and shoes.

"I do hope that your day has been tolerably pleasant?" Phillip offered. "I brought some material that may offer clues for those disturbances near the mausoleums that you mentioned."

Joyce smiled at Emma, wondering if Dawn's teasing greeting counted or not. "My day involved setting up an art display. Quite enjoyable, except for the traffic."

"Guess what? It's time for you to meet my back-up, so you know who else to ask all those questions about the color, size and stink of things." Buffy flashed a smile towards Phillip.

"We're here, and ready to meet the book-guy," Ash called.

Jem bounced on in, her pink hair sparkling and showing up against her dark purple shirt. "If Emma isn't insisting on a salon that costs more than most people make in a week, my sister Erica does hair."

"Jem, Ash, I want you to meet Phillip the book-guy," Buffy gestured. "Book-guy, the guy is Ash, and our pink singer over here is Jem."

"Wow… you remind me of the babe," Jem murmured, her eyes wide and focused on Phillip.

Buffy blinked, "Are you flirting with my new Watcher?"

"What…?" Phillip shook his head, "A babe?"

"Babe with the power… and the books," Jem was grinning.

"Power? He's a guy with creepy old books," Buffy wrinkled her nose. "What power?"

Dawn started to snicker, glancing from Jem to Phillip. "Voodoo?"

"Eeewww, isn't that the one with little dolls and big pins?" Buffy asked. "And if not, who-do with the voodoo? Do they teach Watchers that in Watcher-school?"

"Do what now?" Ash was looking from Jem to Buffy to Dawn, his expression rather bewildered.

Jem started to hum something different, her lips curving into a smirk. Dawn started to giggle.

"Seriously…" Phillip began, looking at them. "This joke is starting to lose the appeal."

"Remind me of the babe," Jem chirped, grinning at Phillip. "Care to sing along?"

"Unfortunately, singing isn't one of my talents… or powers," Phillip sighed. "Yet again, I do not have goblin minions, and I am not the goblin king."

"Too bad," Jem teased. "I always thought he was hot."

Emma chuckled, and sent a thought to Joyce – I do believe she's flirting with him. Not only were you right about who started it, she was only about fifteen seconds into being in the same room. Quite the record.

Joyce felt herself smiling. It was just too bad that now was a bad time to dwell on blindfolds, whipped cream, and her beautiful girlfriend. Focusing the thought towards Emma, Joyce thought that there were times when it didn't take a telepath's mind-reading to know what someone would do and who was most likely to do things. Less focused, she wondered if there might be a chance for romance between Jem and Phillip, or if Jem would keep flirting while he stammered and danced around the issue of feelings. Either way, it might be interesting to watch.

Jem is a far more appropriate person for him to be following and contemplating in locker rooms and private locations than Claybourne's habit of spying on Buffy. They do consider each other attractive, which helps, and they won't have to try to hide the demon-hunting and her mutation… Emma's thought drifted into Joyce's mind.

Joyce tried not to nod her head in response to Emma's comment that nobody else would have heard. Mutual appreciation of good looks wasn't enough to start a relationship, though not having to hide such big secrets might help. She would let them sort it out or dance around it on their own – it wasn't her place to meddle unless it endangered Buffy. But she'd definitely be watching to see what happened.

"Jem and Ash patrol with Buffy. They might have useful details about threats that are encountered, and will need to know any unusual attacks or defenses that a demon may possess, and will need to know the appropriate means of dealing with specific threats. As an added benefit," Emma paused to give Buffy a bemused smirk, "neither of them are also attempting to attend high school, with the attendant academic challenges and the perils of being a teenager."

"You say that like it's a bad thing to be a teenager," Buffy muttered.

Phillip just arched an eyebrow, "I am relieved that some of the people reporting will have a more seasoned approach to life. I can only imagine the frustrations that would follow if the entirety of her support team were also struggling through adolescence."

"I'm pretty sure that wasn't a nice thing to say," Buffy muttered.

"Would you rather have a couple students from your school here with you instead?" Ash countered.

"Ummm…" Buffy's eyes were wide as she considered that. Her face paled and she looked from the books to the crossbow that she'd brought in earlier and back to the books. "umm… a couple of Walter's other students might be okay on patrols… and Akita's got a scary good memory, which could be good with the research…"

Emma lifted one eyebrow.

Dawn began humming the theme song for that unrealistic cartoon that she watched, with the group of mystically empowered schoolgirls in short skirts 'fighting' with gymnastics and flashes of light and catchy music.

Buffy crossed her arms and glared at Emma, "Fine. Trying to bring in some of the other students would suck. They'd have to be attacked or see something awful before they'd stop thinking the whole thing sounded crazy, and getting attacked could mean getting dead or horribly injured, which would also suck. Akita thinks that I'm a scatterbrained twit, which sounds like a really British type insult, and Walter would have a fit about us trying to take his other students out to fight vampires."

"I am supposed to try to prevent students from endangering themselves if possible," Emma observed.

"Is it my fault that the whole Chosen Slayer thing didn't wait until I was older?" Buffy tried to growl. "I didn't ask to be the youngest one out there doing this."

"I could…" Dawn began.

"No you can't," Joyce interrupted. "You're too young, not skilled enough at fighting, and do not have useful mutant powers to make up for the lack of skill. There will be no hunting vampires for you."

Jem was trying not to grin as she followed Joyce's near-tirade, "It really isn't as safe as the cartoons make it look. But we appreciate the offer."

"You were right, Buffy. Scatterbrained twit is an insult, and the twit part is more likely to be heard from a Brit than an American. Scatter-brained is like calling you a ditz or a flake. Twit is… a bit rude but still something that can be said in front of children," Ash offered.

"Moving away from adolescent drama and the reminder that Miss… that Dawn is too young, can we attend to patrol plans now?" Phillip asked.

"What's the plan?" Buffy asked.

Phillip unfolded a city map and spread it over the table. "I've marked the active cemeteries, that is, the ones where people are still being buried. I've also marked areas that have multiple abandoned warehouses or other large buildings, both of which may be used as lairs for demons and vampires. If you could indicate where you plan to patrol tonight?"

"Why mark the empty buildings?" Ash leaned over the map.

"Just because they are supposed to be empty doesn't mean that they are empty. If we can acquire information on questionable bodies being found, and where they were discovered, then compare those locations to the map, it can help us determine which areas we should focus on when searching for a lair. Such information could also help identify possible new vampires, enabling them to be dealt with as they rise, rather than waiting until they can be found hunting. I have a separate map that indicates shops for herbal or magical items, and showing irregularities in the magical background. While it does not appear that you have a practitioner or even a dabbler in the magical arts among your group – unless Ms. Frost is concealing such a person from me at this time – there are on occasion problems that a magical person can be of great assistance in handling."

"Magic?" Ash raised one eyebrow and snorted. "Sleight of hand, wire tricks, and marked cards."

"Magic. Every bit as real as vampires and mutants. What you disparage sounds like prestidigitation and showmanship, which while occasionally useful and impressive, are not true magic. True magic can be utilized in a variety of ways, which I suspect you don't particularly want to hear about at the moment. Suffice it to say that it is a highly versatile and useful tool, and often makes certain problems much easier to solve," Phillip countered.

"Is that covered in Watcher training?" Joyce asked. "Magic, I mean."

"All Watchers are taught a few ways to identify true magic from trickery, as well as a little bit about some of the more commonly encountered magical traditions. You might compare it to a term class on comparative religion. It gives us enough to hopefully recognize and not mortally offend someone, and not enough that we feel like we can handle such matters on our own. Many Watchers are taught a few very minor magical tricks, and some show enough aptitude that they are given more advanced training," he replied.

"How 'bout you? Did you have an attitude for magic?" Buffy asked.

"Aptitude, meaning skill or talent, not attitude," Phillip corrected. "And no, I did not have an aptitude for the Council's magic. One might even say that I have a counter-aptitude for the Council's magic in that my mere presence makes it more difficult for those methods to work correctly. I can light or extinguish a candle, identify if an object is enchanted, and determine if a piece of writing has been forged or altered. Those are the only Council-taught magical tricks that I can accomplish."

"So no stealing people away, goblin minions, dreams in peaches, or dancing crystal balls?" Jem shook her head. "Where's the fun in that?"

"So sorry, but I need to actually use my hands to juggle crystal balls," the dry sarcasm suggested that this was far from the first time he'd heard such comments.

"I suppose it could be worse. You actually get some pop culture references," Buffy added. "Though minions would be pretty cool."

"I have money, I have minions. Though they generally prefer the term employees," Emma observed.

"Quite true, shall we get on with planning this patrol, please?"

End part 41.


	21. parts 42 and 43

While Buffy, Jem and Ashe were on patrol, Emma and Joyce left Phillip Mooreland in a study, with some of his heavy books and a computer with internet access. Emma had also posted one of her employees who didn't want to be called a minion near the door, to keep an eye on Mooreland. Neither of them volunteered the fact that none of Emma's sensitive files were on that computer, or currently accessible at all.

He'd murmured something about tapping the Coroner's office and police reports, and requested some strong tea and time to work on the computer.

They'd left him to that, retreating for a bit. Joyce had murmured "We'll just let you look for whatever it is you're planning to look for with that computer."

After they'd walked a short distance down the hall, Emma winked at Joyce, "You were right. I'll get the chocolate sauce, there's already some feathers in my room. Why don't you go make yourself comfortable?"

Joyce learned a few things. Emma was not ticklish behind her knees, but her upper ribs and the undersides of her breasts were incredibly ticklish. Painting chocolate sauce on a squirming, giggling woman left splatters everywhere. The brand of chocolate really did make a difference, though she thought eating any chocolate off of Emma's body would be an improvement.

Emma learned a few things as well. Joyce didn't just have an eye for art, she could craft the most amazing shapes with a feather and something to leave marks with. Chocolate sauce was more of an adhesive than a personal lubricant. Joyce wasn't ticklish to the same degree, but had far more areas that were a bit ticklish than Emma did.

Emma was already well aware that the chocolate would forever stain the white lace lingerie, and the white satin sheets. But with her money, the replacement expense for lingerie and sheets were unimportant. The pleasure of the experience was more than worth it anyhow.

Neither of them offered the slightest explanation why they were freshly showered and wearing different clothing when the patrol was finished and Jem called ahead to tell them that they were almost back to the estate. If Mooreland had any ideas, he kept silent about them, and if Emma had peeked, she didn't mention his ideas either.

The after-patrol debriefing included maps, with indication of where they encountered each vampire and demon, though tonight had been almost entirely vampires. There had been one demon-dog that had run away, and one maybe-demon maybe-scaly-mutant that had been carrying a big tray of coffee. They hadn't fought with the scaly coffee-drinker, though they had watched him very carefully. The questions about injuries revealed that there were no more than a few scrapes and bruises, and a possible blister from new shoes.

Phillip Mooreland declared it a reasonably safe patrol, and thanked them for their report and patience with him. A few clarifying questions helped him put some more marks on the map, including a different colored one for the scaly coffee drinker, and completely different color and mark for the non-traditional religious sanctuary that Ashe had noticed.

"What are the other blue marks, they don't look quite the same," Emma leaned forwards, studying the map.

"Cemeteries in rust, with vampire lairs marked in red. Other confirmed demon lairs in orange or reddish orange, as well as confirmed hunting locations… these identify known danger points." Phillip pointed to the marks as he explained. "Vampires have problems with church grounds, and more with the buildings themselves. Some demons show similar problems, though not all types. As for why… Catholic and Episcopalian churches are good locations for Holy Water, and it is always a benefit to know places where your enemies can't follow you inside. Or they can't follow the people that you're trying to save."

"Non-traditional… that's normally not a Christian facility. Do those also keep the vampires out?" Joyce asked.

"Sometimes. Enough that it's worth marking, but there's enough times when the answer is 'no' that I use a different symbol. And sometimes the people in those locations have interesting and potentially useful skills," he pointed to the different markings.

"What about that one?" Emma pointed at a different marking, drawn in yellow-orange.

"A museum, pawn-shop, or special supply store. All places where items might be found, hidden, or stolen from," Phillip explained.

"And they won't always be nice and buy it, will they?" Joyce sighed.

Phillip just shook his head. "Very, very seldom."

"Is that due to having vastly different appearances, or due to poor manners?" Emma asked, raising one eyebrow.

"Depends on the species, but generally a mixture," Phillip admitted. "I suspect that there might be a growing number of demons that are calling themselves mutants, and a number of mutants wondering why they seem to be getting called demons."

For a brief, horrible moment, Joyce felt a terrible urge to laugh. It wasn't funny to imagine demons in their array of strange and frightening shapes blinking their sometimes too many eyes in confusion at being called mutants, or to picture mutants – most of whom seemed to look fairly normal, as far as she could tell – being called demons by individuals who didn't think they were being insulting at all. Except… except that it was a bit funny, in a completely wrong sort of way.

"And I suspect that they would be very confused from either side of that experience," Emma murmured.

"I do suppose that they would," Phillip agreed.

"Do you suppose that it might help? That some demons might be…" Joyce floundered for the right words for a few moments. "Do you suppose that being mistaken for mutants might let some of them try to live with a bit less violence and killing, a bit less chance that my daughter will have to go hunting them?"

Phillip looked as if he was flailing for his own right words before finally offering, "One can always hope."

Emma was the one who added, "But prepare for the worst."

Joyce sighed.

End part 42.

In England, the news that Travers and his appointed Watchers had lost track of the Slayer had been carefully circulated through the ranks. By the time the rumors reached the influential senior Watchers, nobody could say for certain just where they'd heard the news, just that 'everybody' had heard it. And what kind of Council Head lost their Slayer – not lost as in fallen in combat, but lost as in we don't know where in the world she is.

This didn't look good for Travers. It didn't look good for the people that Travers had appointed to watch the Slayer in Los Angeles, California or to make certain that she relocated to Sunnydale California either. Especially not since Travers had been promising that everything was going according to plan.

Somewhere along the line, something had clearly broken his plan.

Now Quentin Travers was desperately trying to hold on to his political power. He was so busy with his frantic efforts that he was actually permitting other people to access some of his private records to handle the 'mundane tedium' of administration, and tracking of various threats. Someone else handled the assignment of new Watchers to areas with probable potential Slayers, and the assignment of junior Watchers as assistants and students to Field Watchers. Several promising but poorly connected individuals were accepted into advanced training. Seventeen useful magical artifacts that had been decorating Travers' office were sent out to Field Watchers.

Instructions for a rather disturbing drug that would weaken a Slayer to something rather less impressive than an ordinary athletic young woman were carefully filed in a locked archive under the description of 'artificial weakening poison.' Rumors of the so-called test that had been described with the drug began to circulate as well. As rumors tend to do, it began to twist. From facing a similarly weakened vampire, the story became facing a newly risen vampire over their grave. Then it became facing a pack of feral vampires, possibly in an arena to mimic the old Roman gladiatorial sports. No, not vampires, but a demon. Several demons. Locked in a large house with demons. With vampires. With a Master Vampire. Drugged and handed over to vampires.

Power and position were slipping through the fingers of Quentin Travers at an increasing speed. Soon, the Council would be choosing a new leader. Someone better informed and organized. Someone who could find the Slayer.

…

In Sunnydale, a Watcher named Rupert Giles studied the local high school student records. He had been sent here, to this very different place, this California town, because Travers had insisted that the Slayer would be here soon. That she would need the guidance of an experienced, knowledgeable Watcher. That his would be the vital task of guiding her in her destiny.

That sounded all well and good, except for one little problem. He couldn't find the Slayer. He was still at the school, looking at records that he as the school librarian wasn't actually supposed to be accessing, in the hopes that the Slayer was simply avoiding the library. As far as he knew, he was the only person still in the building.

"I'm starting to wonder if perhaps I'm at the wrong school," he muttered.

"Actually, the problem is that the Slayer isn't in Sunnydale at all."

Rupert jumped at the voice, one hand raising towards his chest as the stack of papers fell to the floor in a mess. There was a man in the doorway, a little pale, with dark hair, and somehow familiar, clad in dark clothing that would have been entirely unremarkable at home in London, but seemed a little formal and perhaps a bit too warm for California.

But this was California, there were very few pale complexioned people here…

Rupert tried to keep his voice from quavering as he asked, "Who are you, and how do you know that?"

The pale man gave a small smile, "My name isn't important right now. Someone who claimed to be a messenger from some very important people showed me a girl. Buffy Summers. I was told that she would soon be the Slayer, she should be the Slayer now. I was also told that she would be going to Sunnydale, and I should be here to help her."

"Who told you that?" Rupert demanded. As far as he knew, nobody could tell in advance who would be the next Slayer, only who had the potential.

"He claimed to be a messenger from the Powers that Be." The man shrugged. "I can't tell you if he was being honest or not. He said she'd be here. That she'd need help. That it was very important that the Hellmouth not be opened."

Before he could stop himself, Rupert found himself admitting, "The current Slayer is Buffy Summers, and the Hellmouth opening would be disastrous."

The pale man nodded. "I know the Hellmouth opening would be a disaster."

"You said that you saw her? Before she was Called?" Rupert couldn't curb his curiosity.

The man pulled a sheet of thick paper from his jacket and handed it to Rupert. The page turned out to be a drawing of a teenage girl in a red and white cheerleader's uniform, with blonde hair falling around her face. "This is her."

Rupert blinked, looking at the picture. It certainly resembled the small picture that he'd been sent of Buffy Summers, and it did connect to the information that she'd been a cheerleader at her previous school. The picture was actually quite well done. "Yes, this is indeed Miss Summers."

"She isn't in Sunnydale." The words weren't a question.

"Then where is she?" Rupert looked at him, forgetting his nervousness. "How am I supposed to protect... to prevent… I was assured that the Slayer would be here as there were signs that the hellmouth was becoming more active."

The pale man shrugged, "I have no idea where she is, but she isn't in Sunnydale. At all. As for the Hellmouth… you won't be working alone. At least, you don't have to."

"And whom am I to expect will be aiding me?" Rupert snorted. He doubted that he'd be very effective on his own, as educated as he was, and as many useful skills as he'd picked up, he was still only human.

"Me." The pale man gave a remarkably unsettling smile, "I had a remarkably mis-spent youth by any set of standards. This is my penance."

It was the smile that made the final connection in his mind. Rupert felt his knees go weak as the name escaped his lips "Angelus."

The vampire shook his head, "Not exactly. There was a little matter of a nasty Gypsy vengeance spell, and I'm not quite the vampire I used to be."

"Do you expect me to accept such an unusual story that easily?" Rupert asked, wondering if he was about to die in a horribly gruesome manner.

With a chuckle, the vampire replied, "No, I'd expect you to doubt, and consult your books as soon as I'm gone. But I don't want the Hellmouth to open either. And I'm a bit nastier in a fight than you are."

Rupert blinked, trying to wrap his mind around a few things. This vampire was claiming that a messenger from the Powers That Be had sent him to help the Slayer? That he wanted to help? That the Slayer wasn't here? It all seemed very unbelievable… except that the Slayer didn't seem to be here. And he'd only said that the messenger had claimed to be from… oh, this was all very confusing!

And now the blasted vampire was gone. At least he wasn't being slowly tortured to death by Angelus. Tea wasn't going to be enough for this one.

End part 43.


End file.
